Eine kleine Nachtmusik
by Z. Alexander
Summary: Living is like having no heart. Seeing is like having more eyes than a normal person. Sensory waves of emotion overwhelm like swarms and swarms of mosquitoes, and reality belongs to Them. But in the end, She is there as a savior. -Larxiné, mild AkuRoku-
1. Chapter 1

Kingdom Hearts belongs to Square Enix and Disney. Direct quotes belong to their authors. Mentioned books, music, films, and props belong to their respective owners, unless I've made them up. The future of America belongs to the young people of this country. How about we decide not to screw it up, okay?

Obviously, this is an AU. It's also a _slightly _different world from our own; Disney just doesn't exist. Final Fantasy and the books which inspired the Disney movies don't exist either. Thus, the video game Kingdom Hearts doesn't exist. I tried to match the monetary system from Kingdom Hearts, which is why prices might seem wonky. Oh, and McDonald's doesn't exist either. Because. _Ew _Each part is a different state of mind, a different kind of vision - don't expect complete consistency (or coherency). Her brain is never in the same place, even when it is. Also, I hate Zemyx with a passion. It wrote itself in here anyway. I apologize.

**Dedications: **_**ironyofalostkeyword. **_You mean more to me than you probably know. And you're also awesome, so there. And _**Versace Frolic. **_She's probably not reading this - Larxene, and all. But just in case: I blame you, dear one, for the posting of this fic. Stop doing that thing where you say stuff that makes sense. It's bad for my resolve.

**

* * *

Eine kleine Nachtmusik**

Roxas kicks you awake and Axel laughs when you fall off the bed. You just shrug and say, "Love you too, douchebag," because you know something's wrong and Roxas is looking for a physical fight.

You're not going to give him the satisfaction.

"You're operating under a rather alarming misconception," he tells you, and it's kind of funny because he got that from you. So you laugh and you're surprised when he laughs and as always, you're surprised by the thick purple ribbons connecting you. It's probably not right that you have them, but after everything...

And besides, nobody cares, except perhaps Axel because Roxas isn't in love with him. But love is hard to come by and he gets what he needs, so you're not surprised he never complains.

They stare and you stare a little too long and you have no idea why Roxas' face contorts unpleasantly when he asks, "Remember that time when we were kids and-"

"No," you say, because you're almost positive you don't. You don't remember much about Before and it's not like it even matters anyway. You might've just said no on principle. "Let's go to McDuck's."

You rarely go out with them; and you've only been to the small burger joint twice in your life. Roxas looks at you like you're from another planet and Axel looks at you like you're an idiot, and you're too used to these looks to be too terribly bothered. You _are _an idiot and sometimes it feels like you're from another planet anyway. You speak the same language, but finer nuances escape you, whoosh over your head like airplanes. You dance to technoclassics because Beethoven is so much fuller, so much _wiser _than the five-synth they play in second-rate clubs in this town. The Dungeon dance floor is your stomping ground because you feel at home amidst double-pumped Prokofiev and chains and pain and the beautiful grey-green sound of screams in the Underground – freaks like you go there to provide for freaks like them.

For a fee, which is why you live with Roxas and Axel in a two-bedroom duplex instead of in the Alleyway like before. What a nightmare _that _was.

"Larx," you hear, and you irritably bat at Axel's snapping fingers in front of your face. You space out too much. Miss too much.

"What?"

"I thought we were going to McDuck's."

You kick Roxas in the shin – payback for his method of waking you from a rare bout of sleep – and shrug delicately. It's nice that you can be sweet and still be utterly terrifying. Being bitchy all the time would get exhausting. "We'll go as soon as you asses get the fuck out of my room," you say, and then you wish you hadn't. You start to suffocate in the density of sudden emptiness as soon as the door shuts.

Calm down, Larxene, you tell yourself. Count to ten. Piss-soaked white silence won't kill you. They're just outside the door.

You don't much like people, but you hate being alone.

It doesn't take much time to shake your way into a little black skirt and pull on those thigh-high boots you're so fond of, but you spend almost three minutes searching for your Organization coat – the only major-label clothing you own. It was lying across the foot of your bed and why the fuck didn't you see it?

You need to wake _up._

"Let's go," you snarl as you throw the door open and walk out. Your daily run can wait; something's wrong and you need some time with Roxas and Axel to make it go away. You don't pause to make sure they're coming; you know they are. Like dogs, they'll follow the one that feeds them without question. And you'll end up paying, because they took care of the rent last night.

"Kinda pathetic without her crystal on," says Axel quietly – as if you wouldn't hear. Ass.

You're about to turn and lay into him, but Roxas says, just as quietly, "Shut the fuck up, Axel. Nobody takes you seriously in those pants."

You don't laugh because then they'd know you heard. Axel's pants are pleather and lace and make him totally girly from behind, and…that was probably the nicest thing anyone's done for you in a while, really, and you think (as you push your way out and into the half-alley) perhaps you're getting too complacent. Things are bound to come crashing down eventually. You've a hunch it's already started.

Light hits your eyes. The kaleidoscope of outside life springs up in front of you and you sneer at it. Birds sing magenta teardrops into your ears and through the cracked window you see the kids across the way smiling at each other because U2 once told everyone it's a beautiful day and they're just now getting the message after something like a century. The smell of baking sugar and cherries wafts out of the window and _why _is the window cracked at a time like this? They're dancing with laughter and grey matter, souls and tones. It's a fucking beautiful picture, thick sweaters and frayed hems and stray snowflakes blowing off rooftops in the wind, and none of you belong there.

You press hard on your stomach so you don't puke. It's all so pointless, isn't it? You're only alive when you've got someone screaming under you. When you've got them begging for mercy. Or when you live on pulsing Mozart, pulling strength from bass beats and perfect rainbowed sonatas. The Dungeon doesn't open for another nine hours. Such a pity.

Along the way a little they're huddled next to a fire pit and a savior, this really old thing with a tape deck, and children laugh at old mix tapes. I bet Great Gramma Great never told anyone to kiss off. I bet she did, Kevin. Oh yeah? Yeah. Well I know Great Grampa Great never called anyone fucking special like two songs ago or even said fuck at all. You mean like what the fuck is kodachrome? Kelley! Language! Kids, where'd you find this!

It's all just old, curdled milk and you hate them. They hate you, too. You march past _their _families in your night clothes because you don't like shopping and day clothes are too expensive to replace. You cozy up to _their _husbands in corners they know about but don't dare explore. You give _their _kids looks of contempt – which they deserve, the little shits – and maybe you aren't so young any more after all. You're twenty-one years old now, but sometimes you feel like you're still seven. You passed fifteen _years _ago but you know you can pull it off if convenience requires it.

McDuck's is on the corner of Dusk and Creeper and whoever named these streets was a fucktard, but you knew that anyway. The whole third district is fucking retarded. You're just glad to reach the joint without any confrontation. You're pretty sure you could strangle someone right about now, but you don't fancy being jailed any time soon.

Laws fucking suck, sometimes.

You jerk open the door and inhale empty libraries, disappointment, thick and pale. Someone's thrown off your groove, and you can guess it's the little blonde in the white dress. She's saturated in melted margarine air, which makes you sick - even though you can see that underneath, there's a vivid blue swirling against glass walls, determined to escape. It makes for a pathetic picture, and you hate her on sight.

She can't stop looking around. She's not supposed to be here, you can tell. There are others in the place, but she's feeling so loudly your head hurts.

"C'mon, I'm starving," says Roxas, putting his hand at the small of your back. You push him away with your elbow and tear your eyes away from the girl. Axel hesitates for a minute and if Roxas is putting him through a diet you're going to _kill _him, brother or not – but then you wake up a little more and remember isn't much he'll eat at a _burger joint, _since he's a vegetarian. Fucking pussy.

Roxas bullies you into ordering some orange juice and you follow them to a table in the back. The girl is gone, and what's disturbing is the _amount _of hatred that brings up in you. You're choking on it, drowning in it, daffodil haze turning you around. Concepts like _who is she _and _why the fuck do I even care _swirl inside your head, each punctuated by shaking, volatile question marks, and you really _are _pathetic without your crystal on, aren't you?

The server brings your food and you waste minutes watching your brother eat. He looks beautiful this morning, radiant and full. It's probably Axel's fault.

Voices trickle into your ears, slimy strings of nonsense slithering downward and gripping your lungs.

"I hate people," you say with a sigh.

They laugh. Your boys laugh, because it's something you always say and they've never realized its truth.

"Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here," says Axel. He slings his arm around Roxas' shoulders and grabs your hand and he really is kind of girly, except anyone who's seen him in tight pants knows he's most definitely male. "People are stupid."

You don't comment – you can't, without being hypocritical in some way – but Roxas does. "You only think that because you're a failed genius, Axel." And oh, it's true. He's _oh _so smart. You can only wish to compare, but it will never be more than a wish. He was supposed to go to college and beyond and he could have become a mathematician or a lawyer or a psychologist – he could fit into any of those, really – but he was too poor and too selfish and he _likes _this. He _likes _roughing with you and your brother.

He gives you a knowing grin, too condescending to be genuine, and when Roxas catches it, he elbows Axel in the side. He's always sticking up for you, even when you don't want it. _Especially _when you don't want it. He's such a good brother.

It's all so foul you can't breathe.

* * *

The Dungeon's pulsing with color and sound; bass beats, electric violins, and fast-paced technoclassics translate bright and beautiful. The floor's rippling like waves and you think, absently, that you probably shouldn't have started so early. Your high will have completely run its course by the time he gets here and yeah, okay, you were jonesing bad, but –

Well, anyway, the floor's rippling and your three-inch heels send those ripples to your ears every time you move. Clack-clack, headless violets, sickly green sounds you find tragic. You swing your hips because you can, because turning heads is your forte. Because turning heads is the best way to hide away. In these heels you're almost as tall as Axel, but your clientele loves it. You're so much more impressive when you're got them on their hands and knees, crop tapping that crimson rhythm on your thigh.

Your poison eyes search the floor, but he's not there. Perhaps he won't come after all. You don't like that thought, even though you do.

"Hey, sexy. Dance with me." You pinch Axel's arm between your nails, because right now he annoys you and he's touching you and he likes pain anyway, so whatever. He likes it better from Roxas, but you do it anyway because this is about you, you feeling safe tonight. Then you put your arms around him and take the lead, because you refuse to be dominated by _him. _Roxas is meeting with a client. Axel's lonely and you've got nothing better to do. This isn't uncommon. Just a little physicality between friends.

It's probably supposed to be awkward, pressing yourself against your brother's boy, but fuck, Axel dances like that single moment of twilight and Roxas is only your stepbrother anyway so it's not like it's _really _wrong - not that you care.

Just a little physicality between friends.

Your head starts to hurt and you want to shut down. They're playing something new, something stupid, and why are they playing something new? Technoclassic is the secondary attraction of this place. You taste dandelions and it makes you want to throw up. It wouldn't be such an issue if you weren't coming down. Maybe. Fuck, this is going to be difficult.

Marluxia arrives silently and yanks you away from Axel with a tug of your hair which turns your vision a dim, dawn orange. It bursts into stained patterns, warped glass, and your broken eyes become wet when he pulls you out of the club that way. Axel looks at you like you're an idiot, and even though _he _looks like the idiot with those bloody hedgehog spikes and too-vivid green eyes, you know he's right. You _are _an idiot.

But you go along anyway. You get into the car, as always. Marluxia is the only one you defer to, the only one you'll let dominate you. You're the one that gets hurt, during these encounters, and mostly you hate him but he pays well and you've known him for a long time so _that's_ what counts. It doesn't matter that he leaves you bleeding. It doesn't matter that spending time with him holds none of the original appeal…work should never be about personal satisfaction anyway. It just matters that –

This is worth one-eighty in single units. That's what gets you through the –

Fuck –

Fuck, why do you still _enjoy _this shit? You're _over _it. You've _been _over it for -

One-eighty. One-eighty. That's what gets you through this. That's what you tell yourself every time he makes you bleed. That's what justifies the limp you'll have if he beats you like you lie and say you want. One-eighty.

Nobody pays _Axel _that much, and _he _does this on a daily _basis._

One-eighty. It can be okay. Your ex boyfriend can get his kicks and you can get a new corset. Your ex boyfriend can treat you like the dirt you are anyway, and you can treat Axel to a kick in the gut for bringing Marluxia back to you in the first place.

One-eighty. Then you can go back to the comfort of control. Then you can pretend you don't hate him. The door to room eleven is shut and locked, and you hate that you have goose bumps. Your nerves are singing in anticipation.

"Scream for me," he whispers, and the dawn gives way, sunshine yellow rising. You want to retch. You want to explode. You're shoved against the wall, and your head knocks against a picture frame. He's always _so, _so violent with you…it's sickening and _what the fuck, _you shouldn't be enjoying this, you're _over _it! You want to kill him. But that would mean losing your payment, so you –

You scream for him.

"Good girl."

The scream turns into a pathetic, needy whimper. You resume screaming, but only on the inside, vomiting sulfur clouds only you can see.

* * *

She's almost six years old and sitting in the left corner of the couch, the left corner of the living room. Arlene shows a man and a boy inside. The man takes Arlene's hand and they blend together, mint and pine, two apart and two together, distinct color. The boy sits beside her and looks at her curiously.

"You're a girl," he says. "I like girls, but I haven't met very many."

She doesn't respond.

"I'm Roxas. I'm eight. That's my dad. His name is Michael. Why won't you look at me?"

She doesn't look at him directly, because his color is so bright it surrounds her and fills her. He is the first red she's met. He looks like blood. She 'adores' blood - if that's the correct way to use the term she learned in books. She greatly enjoys looking at it. But she doesn't want to see the boy's eyes. They're scary.

"What's your name?"

She still doesn't respond, but she _almost_ wants to. His voice is teal summer breezes and chamomile. She _almost _wants to compare what she hears in her head.

"Hey! Say something!"

"Oh, I'm sorry," says Arlene. "I forgot about introductions! This is my daughter, Larxene. Don't worry; she's not ignoring you. She just never talks."

She takes Michael aside and says, very quietly, "I don't know what to do...sometimes I think she's retarded. Is that going to...be okay?"

Roxas frowns. She knows he knows she can understand because he looks at her when he says, "I don't like that word. I bet you don't either."

She doesn't. But she likes (and is interested in) the boy next to her, covered in blood and singing Liszt into her ears. He gives her Liebestraumin waves, but nobody else mentions it and he doesn't make a sound.

* * *

Tuesday is your day off, since the club isn't open on Tuesdays. Bad luck, they say, to be open on the worst day of the week. It sucks - you live to dance, one way or another - but you refuse to go to any other club. You respect yourself - and your _ears -_ too much.

So you ditch Axel and your brother at the house and wander into town. You hate being alone, but with the way they were eyeing each other…no way in hell. You don't understand how - doing what they do for a living - they can still find the _drive _on their days off. Goddamn satyriasists. Or whatever. They're not _that _bad. But still -

What a _motive._

The Gizmo Café is always open, and you can usually find someone there. All those pretentious college insomniacs start to gather at about eleven, to discuss art and literature and psychology and to barf grandiloquent phrases into the air between them, just because they want to make some kind of impression. (You've considered telling them you suffer from sesquipedalophobia, just to be an asshole, but they'd just look at you like the moron you secretly are and you refuse to take that from just _anyone.) _

You don't care to hang about, breaking down beauty or tossing around psychological _theory _(you much prefer _practical _psychology),but some of them are wicked chess players and you need something to take your mind off…things.

Everything.

You're breaking, and you didn't notice until the girl refused to leave your head. Just like _Marluxia. _You hate her for shoving her feelings into the air. You hate her for forcing her way into your thoughts. You hate her for pushing you toward the edge.

So you close your eyes and breathe, make your way through the third and into the second district, and pretend you don't _feel _it. You don't feel the shift in the air. You don't feel the atmosphere go from light to heavy, from dreary to miserable. Everyone's miserable in this place, except those rich snobs at the university - they tolerate this filth because they know they're getting out someday. The discontent here is nearly _tangible. _It tastes like stale sun and rot and haze settles in like suffocating fog.

Lights are brighter here in the second district - but only for the protection of the citizens. The Gizmo Café stands out like a beacon, calling to you. The energy is high there. You can almost hear the laughter from the end of Dusk Boulevard.

As you reach the door, you brace yourself. You know that you'll be overwhelmed. The _people…_but you've got backup in your pocket and people to hate. It'll get better as soon as you get a feel for them.

A bell sounds as your eyes take in the room. It's _packed, _and you think you might want to leave, but where else will you go? At least here, the faint butterfly strains of Solfeggietto drip from the speakers and you take comfort in the fact that this place hates the new simple stuff almost as much as you do. There's just no _life _in repetitive five-note syntheses.

Bright color wraps around you, screams in your eyes, but you focus on the largish group in the back, on the couches. The chess table is back there - and luckily, it's unoccupied.

"He-hey, Larx!" Someone's waving to you and by now you don't have to search for his name. Dirty blond, aquatic eyes, honeyed autumn voice -

"Hey, Demyx," you say. He's not so bad, compared to the others. You recognize three of them; Zexion, Lexaeus, Vexen; they're all regulars, but Demyx is the only one you can stand, and you don't care about anyone else anyway. He's the best player you've ever met.

"I was wondering when I'd see you again," he says. His Holopad is on the floor; by the way they're sitting, you can tell he was showing Zexion how to use the program for sheet music.

Zexion is one of those intellectual bullshitters. Demyx must have the patience of a saint - you wouldn't be able to teach him anything without wanting to kill something. It's a good thing you aren't in a position to teach anything to anyone.

"Larxene," he says, not even raising his one eye to meet yours. Ass.

"Zexy," you reply. You like to jump on his nerves. One of these days he's going to break his calm, and you're going to be the cause.

"I'll be back in a few moments. Enjoy your _friend, _Demyx."

"Enjoy your_self, _jackass," you say sweetly. You know he'll get the jab. He's a smart kid.

"Hey!" Demyx isn't very happy with either of you. His sad face might tug on your heartstrings, if you actually gave a damn about anyone any more. You used to, once upon a time, before…whatever it was. Whatever happened.

"I just came to say hi," you say, dismissing his subtle reprimand and watching Zexion go into the crowd and toward the bathroom. It's funny - Demyx is one of the only people you make nice with. You suppose it's because there's no pressure. He doesn't know you. He doesn't care about who you are or what you do outside Gizmo. If you scare the hell out of everyone else, he just laughs because he _likes _your sense of humor, no matter how bizarre and morbid it is. And he's a music major - you don't find many of those any more. That garners the respect you've never given to anyone, even Roxas.

"Sure." He smiles at you, pushing moonlight breath through his teeth, like water through a sieve. "The usual, then?"

"Yeah."

You sit down and wait for him to shut down his Holopad. It's the newest model. _Someone _has money. But you knew that from the start.

"Sorry about him," he says, sliding into the seat opposite you. "He gets pissy when he doesn't understand something. We have music theory together, and between you and me - he's not cut out for music _anything. _Pretty good with tech, though. He works for a big HolCom company in exchange for free schooling."

"You'd think he'd be able to work the program, then," you say dryly. You move a pawn one space forward.

"Well, it's not like that exactly," he replies, moving one of his two spaces forward. "He's not in the programming department. He actually works on the team that designs the hols themselves. It's too complicated for me - I just help him with MT because I'm afraid Lexaeus will break me in half if I don't. You're not very tech-savvy, are you?"

"I prefer the real world, thanks," you tell him. It's true - and someday, when you find the real world, you'll learn about Holotech. You're behind the times.

You focus on the game and on Demyx. One of the nice things about playing Demyx is that he's very sneaky with his feelings; you can't cheat by watching his color. You hate cheating. It's _boring._

You just can't stand losing, either; that's why you react to challenges like you're fighting for your life.

There are twenty minutes of silence, in which you study the board and Demyx's moves and the energy in the café. If life was a game of chess, you'd be the Queen's rook - and he'd be your partner. But life is not a game of chess. People are not black and white. Murder is illegal. The world makes even less sense than _you _do.

Or perhaps it only _seems _that way; you can't understand it.

When Demyx takes your bishop, Zexion comes back with crepes and coffee. They're all ready for a battle of wit against vagueness and their own insecurities. This is your secondary motive; you may not like participating, but you love to hear others spew theory and bullshit. It amuses you; and one of the things you like most is laughing. No one's exempt. Everyone's ridiculous, especially here.

You take Demyx's knight and listen. The game goes on and they run through meaningless images, hypothetical nonsense. You roll your eyes and Demyx asks, "What?"

"Just…them."

He moves a pawn one square forward. "What about them?"

"It sounds like they don't even know what they're _talking _about. But it's _so important…_can't you see the way that chick's sitting? She's on the edge of her seat. You can just _see _how much she wants to tell us _all about _what she thinks. It's _so fun _to sound smart. I bet you anything she'll tell us she supposes something or other, but perhaps it's this way. Oh, and the author must have meant this particular thing, don't you think? It's so clear, here…look, I memorized this passage by _heart." _You snort. "It's fucking hilarious."

You move your queen three squares diagonally and fold your hands on your lap. You've got this game in the bag now. All he has to do is move _one _piece…it doesn't matter which.

"She never speaks that way, because she knows it just sounds stupid. Seriously, Larx. _Suppose?"_

"Fuck off," you say, forcing a smile. "Secretly, I'm just a snob. The phraseology sounds better." It's both true and untrue. You know you're snobbish, but that's not why you always sound awkward when you speak. You just forget to think better on occasion. To move the conversation forward, you add, mockingly, "The cloud is _symbolic. _And her prolonged stare is indicative of turmoil she refuses to voice."

"There aren't any significant clouds in _Miss Minnie's Palace."_

You raise an eyebrow. "They mentioned Lina Mina George and Kampala Rose. Those freaks are only in _Twelve Miles. _Is it a two-for-one? I wasn't paying very much attention - I was more focused on totally kicking your ass."

"Really the discussion is _supposed _to be about _Miss Minnie's Palace. _Are they still stuck on Lina? Apparently, _I'm _the one that wasn't paying attention."

"So you're reading a _children's book."_

"No, it's…well, yes, but _I'm _not. They're doing this weird thing on children's literature and the impact it has on society or…I don't even know. I'm not in that class."

"You're welcome to join," says Zexion from nowhere, and he's almost smiling. It's not a challenge - at least, you don't think so - but you're frustrated and there are too many people in here. You need some stress relief. So you take it as a challenge anyway.

"Well, when I was _six,_ I thought _Miss Minnie's Palace_ was charming," you say, giving him a sickly sweet smile. You don't have a problem with Zexion, per se - though you do have a problem with _Vexen, _the creepy chemistry major with chocolate-coated acid in his voice and a wheat color which seems to always hone in on you - but you do have a problem being around him. He's the same mint green as Arlene; you don't know whether you miss him or are repulsed by him. "But it lost its appeal when I learned there are no secret castles or happy endings." You smirk. "At six, we're so naïve…the impression is lasting. I can still taste sky candy."

Chew on that for a while, you think. You wonder if they know you're full of shit on purpose, and are just 'humoring' you…or if they're nodding because they think it means something real.

Fucking douches. Smart people, like these, are better toys than most - they can't understand you, because you're on such a lower level. It's ceaseless entertainment to watch them try to do it anyway.

You used to wish you could find an _extra _intelligent person, one who could _put _him or herself on your level, but it hasn't happened. You continue to pretend, and find amusement in it. If you couldn't laugh, you would kill yourself. Boredom is bad for you, and conscious self-loathing is absolutely _toxic._

"My mom held it back till I was nine," says the eager girl. "The fight scene is incredibly graphic, considering the target age group." Her voice drags on the ground before it reaches you, dull despite its almost shrill quality. You want to erase her from the picture; even Vexen's crayon wheat is better than this girl's sick piss color.

"Mine didn't care what I read. She was just surprised I could actually read at all." You frown - you hadn't planned to say that. "Actually, I just realized I have to go do something. As fun as this was…yeah. Checkmate, Demyx. I may see you next week."

"Wait, stay. I want you to meet my sister," he says, and you stare for a moment. You don't understand why he would want you to meet her; you're not friends. You know more about him than he does about you, but only because you survive by observation.

"No, I really have to get going," you tell him firmly. Despite your sudden frustration and _nervousness, _you can feel your lips twitch. All of this is so fucking _funny._ "I'm going to work."

"Oh, really? What do you do?"

You give him a crude smile. "I kill babies."

Without waiting for a reply, you whirl around and leave the group. Just before you're out of hearing range, you hear the girl point out, "The abortion clinics aren't open after nine-thirty." You laugh out loud and wonder if she knows from experience.

As you push the door open, you decide you're just going home. You can't bear to be around that many people without music and movement. Your games didn't help at all - you feel worse than you did when you went in.

Despite what you do for a living, you're not a very physical person, but tonight is different. Tonight you need…something. You need the warmth of someone next to you, around you. You need to be able to relax, to close your eyes and know you're not going to wake up alone.

You need your brother.

* * *

He first touched me after the funeral. Arlene was in the basement, crying over Michael's laundry, and I told him he could never leave me. I'd liked Michael better than Arlene, and losing him was like losing a favorite pet. I didn't cry - I wasn't even truly sad, but then, Roxas wasn't either.

He told me he'd never leave me.

I told him to promise.

It was supposed to be a small one, because kissing a sibling was wrong. But I didn't think it was wrong, and neither did he, so it turned into a longer one. And then another. It was kiwi, halfway between bitter and sweet, until he bit my tongue and I started bleeding. Then it was sea-salt ice cream and lightning and freedom the color of frostbite. He told me to lie back and I did, because he wanted me to. I was willing to do whatever he wanted - he was stronger than me, and he would never leave me. I wanted him to bite me again. When he did, my vision exploded into sunsets and sunrises and midmorning skies.

He played my body like a viola, painted me with bruises and midnight and pleasure the color of old cherries. He told me to tell him if I wanted to stop. He told me to tell him if he was hurting me too much. But I didn't tell him anything.

Then we were both red. I stole his color for a moment, wrapped it around me like a blanket. The sight of his eyelids and the bite on my lower lip left me quivering and weak and he covered me with his body after he shot rays of bruised tangerines at imaginary targets and lost his energy.

He told me I could tell on him if I wanted. He told me I could tell Arlene if I didn't want to see him again.

But I didn't tell her anything.

I was fourteen. And he would never leave me.

* * *

You're on the couch between Roxas and Axel, in front of a genuine _television _set. Nobody can even _find _these any more, since HoloTech monopolized the market fifty years ago, but Axel has a knack for talking people into making deals they don't really want to make.

You don't have a Holoscreen, but you get to see old movies. This is why you know Grandma wasn't lying; this place used to be connected to other places. Your world used to be called 'United States of America,' before the reform. And it was just a country in a bigger world.

You don't really care. You don't want to see other 'countries;' this one is miserable enough. You want familiarity. You want Roxas and Axel and Roxas' fingers rubbing small circles on your hipbone. You want Axel being annoying and sitting on your legs because it's easier to be still if someone's holding you down.

Their eyes meet over your head and it's like you're not there. You're the third wheel here, even though it should be Axel because you were there first. Roxas is _yours. _But you really can't claim him because you really aren't here. You aren't the third wheel. You aren't…

Real.

You exist between them because you all make it so. Roxas is yours and Axel is Roxas' and that's the only reason you're alive at all. Axel's presence is the reason you haven't retreated into your hazy, colored world - you exist to beat him, to make things like they were. You exist out of spite.

You close your eyes and count the beats of Roxas' heart. You haven't gotten any sleep since Saturday and you don't want to be bored tonight. perhaps if you all stay like this forever…

Beat -

Beat -

* * *

Veins of light the color of Axel's hair crawl through the air, meandering through the crowds and pulsing with the dark orange synthesized bass beats of a double-timed Moonlight Sonata. You know Beethoven's rolling in his grave, but at least it's _music. _At least it was built on feeling, scribbled in passion.

He used his hands to bring it to life, not some program. He used pen and ink and paper and. And. And _heart._

These lights are turning your head upside-down. On the Holoscreen walls you can see explosions of colored light and it's funny, because they've got it all wrong. Or perhaps that's just you. You've got it wrong. You see those explosions, see those cracks and notes and colors which are being vomited out of the speakers, fired from cannons. But they're not the same as the ones on the Holoscreen.

It's turning you around. But you love it. As always, you love it. Your reality is mixing with theirs. Your reality could maybe lose this time.

"Hey, sexy. Dance with me?"

That's the wrong voice. Axel is with a client. Roxas is dancing with some girl, a girl with black hair and blue eyes - oh, _no. _You recognize her from Gizmo. She's the girl whose mother wouldn't let her read. Fuckfuckfuck. Her color is going to taint him.

"Aww, come on, Larxene," says the voice again. You've heard it before. You don't want to turn around until you know the voice, because you don't know if you want to see him. You don't know if seeing someone you can't stand will push you over the edge tonight. Your nerves are shot. You haven't had a fix in three days. Your salvation is the music, and…

Honeyed autumn. Filtered water flowing into a glass. Beautiful, beautiful aquamarine. You can turn around because it's Demyx. Demyx isn't irritating. Demyx is someone with whom you've connected, even if you'll never admit it out loud. He doesn't fit in either.

"Hey, Demyx." You throw your arms around his neck for no reason at all, and pull him a little closer when you realize you've done it. He asked you to dance - he doesn't have to know you're actually glad to see him.

Especially since you really shouldn't be.

"You're a hard woman to find," he tells you. He runs his hands down your sides and across your back and - he's such a gentleman. What's he doing _here?_

"I work here," you reply carelessly.

"When you're not out killing babies, I assume?" His tone is light, mocking, but not rude. "That was funny, you know. Xion figured you did abortions. I was…the only one who knew you were kidding."

"So what'd you tell them?" You're not curious - not _really. _But he's talking about the girl. You want to know if she's going to ruin him.

"Nothing. It started a debate about abortion, and…yeah, that's not my thing. As soon as Naminé came, I split. They can debate all they want - half our laws have been in place since this was still _America. _Whether it's right or wrong, it doesn't matter. Personal choice takes us so far, and laws make sure that 'so far' isn't 'too far.' So who fucking cares?"

"Xion, apparently," you say, deciding not to ask how he knows what this place used to be. "She doesn't seem very…uh. Good."

"Coming from you?"

"I'm not that bad." It's a lie. You're not sorry. You pull him closer and put your face in his chest - you're getting overwhelmed by the streams of light and color and the thick, grey-blue sounds of too much body movement. The smell of cheap detergent sends your head into the palest of shocks, pea-green, frosted with familiarity you _just can't place._ "Just tell me."

"…She's a little crazy," he acquiesces. "Her mom was, like, chemically impregnated or something in this weird…study. I don't know. Don't quote me. Anyway, her mom needed money and figured - hey, I want kids, but I'm a loser and nobody likes me, so…yeah, why not? It fucked with her head. Poor kid…when she's not medicated, she thinks she's a kid named Sora. A _boy. _She wants to learn more about that project and see if she can reverse the effects someday - we keep telling her it's impossible, but she keeps saying she wants to be a _real _person. As if she isn't already."

You almost freeze. You feel yourself going stiff. But you spin out with your eyes closed, trailing your fingers down his arms, catching his hand and pulling him toward you again. He's supposed to be leading. But you never let anyone lead you - other than Marluxia. But you won't see him till Saturday.

You want to be real, too. But nobody has to know that.

"Well, she rubs me the wrong way," you murmur. "She's messing with my little brother - I wanted to know if I need to go save him."

"Why's he here, if he needs protection? How old is he, anyway? You can't be more than…"

"He's twenty-three." You give him a laugh, half forced. "He's two years older than me. I just…call him my little brother because he's short."

"Yeah, she's pretty harmless. Don't worry." He laughs - but it sounds like the inside of a timpani. Hollow. Big sound, but only because there's nothing but space. "So you work here."

"Yep."

"And I guess that means I'm dancing with a…"

"They call us 'attractions,' when we're working," you tell him. You haven't opened your eyes yet; and now you don't want to. You don't want to see his face. You can already feel his skepticism and something you're afraid to label 'hope.' What is he hoping? "But don't let the name fool you. We're bona fide prostitutes, baby."

"You're proud of that?" His tone is only curious; it's strange. He's feeling. He's feeling _so much _it's making your head spin. He's curious and he _pities _you and he's upset. But he only _sounds _curious.

"At this point, it's the highest paying job anyone like me can get. I'm too stupid for college, and I probably couldn't concentrate on it anyway. They reserve places at restaurants for students. And…I know what to say and how to treat people. You could say I'm doing a public service. I'm good at what I do. It can be fun." You grin at him. "I guess I _am _proud. Do you think you could do it?"

"No, of course not." He pulls you in again and doesn't say anything more. But his silence tells you more than words ever could. He's…upset. He's _angry. _And he's sad. And you _hate _that it's because of something you said to him…and not something you _did _to him.

"Shut the fuck up," you murmur. "I'm better off than a lot of people. Go throw your pity flowers on _their _graves."

"I…didn't say anything," he tells you. He's being as loud as he can without shouting over the music. It's a club-whisper, aspen in a hurricane. Delicate.

"Yeah, I know." You frown - you slipped. You're not supposed to talk about things like that. "You were thinking it. I could tell."

"Well, sure." He grabs your face lightly and you want to push him away. But you don't, because you're curious. He's bringing you into the timpani, covering you in honey, filling up empty spaces with aquamarine and cheap detergent and suddenly you're inside him, cemented there in his heart. You can hear it, faintly lulling any feelings of safety to sleep with Hebrides Overture. "I know it doesn't matter to you, Larxene, but I like you. I'm not like my classmates. I'm not like my family, either. I've never fit in…and neither have _you. _We're alike, you know. Well, on the inside. On the outside, you're a sarcastic, sadistic bitch. But on the inside…you're just a scared little girl who wants to be kept."

You slap him across the face. A crack rings out, even above the music - it's an orchestral rendition of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody no. 2. The timing is messed up. The synth bass is messing it up even further. And the sound of your slap is rocks inside air ducts, echoing, hurting your ears. You still haven't opened your eyes, but that's okay. You can feel everyone around you anyway.

"You're a loser," you say. Once more, with feeling. "A _loser."_

"Yeah, I am. You know, the only reason I even _said _any of that is because I've got no pride. It wasn't an insult. It just _is."_

"Get the fuck away from me!" You try to push him again but he dances out of reach. You don't want to open your eyes, because you're afraid of what you'll see. You're afraid you'll see something familiar, and you're afraid you won't see anything at all.

"Larx? Is this guy giving you a problem?"

It's Axel's voice. _Thank the stars. _You've got something to ground you now. His voice is fire and sleep and the grit under boots in a warehouse. But you don't want _him_ to _save _you. You're not some helpless little girl. Demyx is right, but you don't want him to be right, so he's wrong. You're not scared. You're not scared. You're _not._

"No. Get the fuck out of here. Rescue your beloved jackass from that Xion chick he's charming."

"Yeah, whatever."

It's awful, awful, awful. You can't move too much without opening your eyes, because it looks stupid. Dancing with eyes closed can be sensual and beautiful. Walking with them closed tips them off. You're a grade-A idiot. You're not _normal. _Oh, fuck, why is Demyx ruining everything? He's supposed to be _low pressure._

"Anyway," he says - he sounds unconcerned, like all this is just in _passing, _like he doesn't realize he's _breaking _you. "I'm worried about you. We're friends now, aren't we?"

"No. We're not."

He laughs. Laughs at you. _Laughs _at _you. _Laughs _at _you. "All right, then. Just wanted to come see you at work, like any other annoying friend. But, you know, since I was wrong…I'll see you at Gizmo, maybe. Till we meet again, then?"

"I…"

When you finally open your eyes, he's already got his back to you, slipping through the crowd like a pro. He doesn't look back. That's a _good_ thing.

…It's a good thing.

* * *

We're drowning. We're breaking apart. We're stuck in slow motion, choking on Technicolor nothing, drawing deep breaths with our mouths wide open just to feel something white and cool in the backs of our hot throats. We're closing our eyes because I don't want to see it. I don't want to see the world. I want it all to be dark. Not this…

This frenetic, phantasmagorical fantasy - this cornucopia of color.

This is reality, isn't it? Isn't it, Larxene? You're going to wither soon. You're going to become nothing more than wisps of essence, dead, empty. We're going to die soon.

Shut the fuck up. This is me. I don't care. Note to self: stop talking to me so much.

Ah, fuck. I did it again.

* * *

They all think you're filled with hate and rage, but it's not true. You have a temper and you only hate most people because you're not like them. You want to be like them. You want to be real. What do they have that you don't?

You mother once said you see in color. She said it was cute, and perhaps even a gift, and isn't it a relief to find a reason you were such a different child? Different, as a compliment. Or not. You don't know.

Thinking about Arlene always makes you sick. You don't know what _to _think about her. Most days, you can't even remember what she looks like, until you see the picture Roxas took just before he left. You know she had blue eyes and blonde hair and a much bigger chest than yours, but you can't put it together. You never had the mother you didn't want. And you never know if it's a bad thing.

This is why you hate living in Suburbia.

_You don't see it. You don't see a child with a mother. You see a child and a woman and too much color. Every kind, mingling but not mixing. This is far beyond your comprehension, always, always. You're looking at them through the glass, not quite blinded by the light. Not even Roxas can get you out. He can't understand it either. Sometimes he can't pretend he's not afraid of you._

Or maybe it's Disturbia.

* * *

He's willing to pay you _two hundred _to spend time teaching him the ropes. It's an odd request, one you've never gotten and you never expected, but it's easy money and the nice thing is that you don't have to keep your temper. He's all too willing to grovel.

Maybe you shouldn't.

It makes you sick, the way he reminds you of you, before that thing you can't remember. You didn't look people in the eye. You fumbled over words and apologies. You only felt validated when you were being pushed around. When they completely humiliated you. When they told you the truth about yourself - you're stupid. You're worthless. You belong on the floor with all the other dirt.

You almost want - as you meet his light green eyes and his downy, earthy color reaches out and over you, suffocating - to just tell him to grow a fucking spine.

But you will _not _do it. You don't care about him. And he's too frustrating to garner that sympathy you hate to give. You hate any kind of sympathy anyway.

"_Two hundred munny," _he says quietly, pleadingly. "Please accept it."

The picture is breaking apart. His request, spiraling ash and pale, looms up, trying to scare you. He's so _irritating. _He says _'munny.' _What a stupid _joke. _Munny - the word calls out to you, taunting you. Your ears are screaming. You close your eyes to ground yourself.

"No," you say sharply. "I don't do shit like that. Go bother someone who cares."

He looks down.

"_Now, _fucker! Did you not _hear _me?"

He's startled - he shouldn't have been - and scurries away, spilling muttered apologies like raindrops from a raincoat.

You want to run after him, not to find him but to just get _away, _but you don't. Instead, you just lean back, right foot flat against the wall just beneath your ass, and fold your arms. You're frustrated - you always stand out. Always. Your bright hair, bright eyes, and height make sure of it. But you don't want to stand out.

You never did.

* * *

There's a girl with Demyx. You remember her very well; she's the one you saw at McDuck's, the one with melted margarine-yellow dripping over her blue, surrounding her, hardening and refusing to let her escape. She's wearing white - a poor attempt to absorb the sickness. She'd be better off using a knife to cut it away. But she'd bleed, and scream, and it would be…

Beautiful.

You hate her still.

"Hey! I figured you'd come back, sooner or later," Demyx shouts, waving you over to their table. It's six o'clock on a Tuesday evening and his voice is still beautiful and you hate him for it. You can't resist beautiful things. That's why you can't let your brother go and you can't let him fall in love with Axel. Their relationship is so dirty, so gritty, so excruciatingly sick under its purple veil. It could be something like the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. But you _want _it for _yourself._

"Larx?"

You glare. You could be on the moon but all you need to do is give anyone a look, and they'll realize you were listening the whole time. Even though you weren't. "What _now?"_

"I figured you'd at least say _hi. _Maybe you didn't hear - this is my sister, Naminé. She's an artist too. I brought her here for her birthday."

You frown. The phrase 'what are the odds' runs through your mind before it's chased away by the miniscule practical side of you. The chance of sharing a birthday isn't exactly _low. _There are only three hundred sixty-five days in a year.

_And what a fucking loser anyway._

"Disregarding the freakiness of your knowing that I _used _to be an artist," you say, stressing the fact that you haven't picked up a brush since Roxas stopped sleeping with you, "I don't really care."

The blonde girl shrinks into herself a little. She's scared of you. She should be; you could eat her up and nobody could stop you. It would be nice to see her bleed, to see the white dress steep in red like tea in water. Perhaps it could cancel out the nauseating yellow.

"Well, anyway," he continues, waving off your comment like a fly before his face, "Nam, this is Larxene. She's a ballin' chess player and she's pretty enough to frame, yeah?"

"Y-yes. I understand your song now." It's the first time you've heard such a pathetic, misty voice. She sounds sad and lost. Blue pushes yellow outward, and you refrain from holding up your arms, from shielding yourself. They wouldn't understand; and you hate being different. It wouldn't _really _protect you, anyway. Color finds its victim no matter what.

"…Pardon?"

You find some kind of useless vindication in the way his eyes dart to the side and her head hangs. You feel so _powerful, _so wonderfully _mahogany. _It's like a good crystal rush. For a few seconds, you feel so _alive._

And then the feeling retreats.

"I wrote a song about you," Demyx says quietly. "I couldn't help it. You inspire me."

"Well…" You don't quite know what to say to that. It doesn't make sense, but you refuse to admit you don't understand. You're stupid. But you don't like to bring it to others' attentions, if you can avoid it. So you turn it back on him. "That was stupid."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You're free to kill me. Anyway, I wanted you two to meet."

"Well, now we've met," you say dismissively. She _frightens _you. There's so much _power _in that nervous stature and frail-looking body. Slyly, you add, "I saw you at McDuck's on Dusk and Creeper about a month ago, didn't I?"

Naminé shifts nervously, and you laugh mockingly. "Wasn't that you?"

"…Yes," she admits softly, avoiding your eyes. "It was…"

"Riku again?" Demyx's face is unreadable, but his color is shifting almost violently. He's pushing worry into you. It's annoying.

"I just…wanted to see him again. He didn't come. I think it's too late."

Before you can ask what she's on about, Demyx sighs and says, "He was an old man. Too old to really live well anyway. So being sad is kind of pointless, right? It's over, and at least he doesn't have to walk around with a cane any more."

"That's so cold!"

Underneath the yellow taint, Naminé's blue roils, smashing against the barrier. She looks more helpless than you've seen anyone look - and you know she's not like that. It's aggravating in its mesmerizing quality. You're enchanted, and you only vaguely hear Demyx reply, "It's just true. C'mon, Larx. Back me up here."

"Uh…yeah." You sound dry. _Perfect. _You've trained yourself well.

"See? I'm _totally _right. Larxene said so."

"So Larxene knows it all?"

He grins - it sends something else out, distracting you even more. You don't understand the feeling; it's something you've never felt before. You've only _seen_ it send flares of colorless energy into the air and mix with the rest of the world. Add to the existing color. "Pretty much. She's all full of _profound knowledge _and shit. Just ask _Xaldin."_

This brings you back to their reality. You didn't realize how much your offhand bullshit affected Demyx's study group - and you don't know whether to be pleased or horrified. You suppose it _can _be both; you're allowed to feel more than one thing at a time. It's just difficult to do.

You laugh anyway; it's funny. What a _joke._ What a _punchline. _"Wow. That's the biggest _load _I've ever heard."

He blinks. "Really?"

"I'm definitely not full of profound knowledge. _Shit,_ though…that's debatable. At least, my brother will tell you-" You pause, and shrug. Talking about Roxas isn't something you want to do. Axel's face pushes its way into your inner vision and you don't want to think about how you refuse to let Beauty happen. It leaves the taste of yellow molded to your tongue like the clay you never use any more.

You can't break through and you can't peel it off.

It's breaking you.

"Whatever," you say. It doesn't make sense, but that doesn't matter. You don't owe anyone anything.

"Are you going to sit down?" The question is abrupt and quiet and unexpected and you frown at Naminé in confusion before it registers.

Oh. You're still standing. You need to pay attention. _Normal _people sit when they join others at a café. You pull out a chair and slouch into it exaggeratedly, as if it's a great burden to be sitting with them.

It's not far from the truth. But they don't know the burden's on them.

Night rush doesn't start until nine and it's really an inconvenient _coincidence _that you showed up at the same time they did -

"Larxene? Are you all right?"

You haven't even been paying attention to anything except the way their colors mingle - how brightly she shines. How calming he is. How _inspiring _they both are. It makes you want to -

_Shit._

"I'm sorry," you say automatically. You're not sorry, though. You're only terrified of the effect the girl has on you. Pretty soon you'll be sitting in front of the easel you hate but never had the balls to burn. "I'm actually supposed to meet my brother sometime tonight. You're not going to die if I leave you, right?"

"Well, actually…I really wanted to just hang out," says Demyx. He's giving you a look you can't read. You can't feel it and you can't interpret his color at all. You want to scream, to lash out at him, but running scared is something you do much too often.

"Why?"

"Because you're cool. And because it's your birthday."

Sometimes it's very bad to not understand. Today, though…he's just returning what you gave to him. "How did you know?"

"You told me. The day we met, I annoyed you into telling me. Don't you remember?"

"Ah…yeah. I just figured you wouldn't." It's a lie. You don't remember. You most likely expected him to forget you existed after parting ways. "This is a surprise."

"I'm kind of a ninja like that." He grins. "Anyway, stay. Once we're finished here, I'm taking her to see Inland Empire. They finally made a version we can _watch_…it's an underground project, because…well, you know the laws about that shit. But still, it's playing at eight at Toxic Shock and they'll be selling copies after."

"I-Inland Empire?" Suddenly, spending time with Demyx and his scary sister seems like the best idea anyone's ever had. The film is one of your favorites, but you've never seen it on a _Holoscreen. _You were afraid you never would.

"Yeah. Do you know it?"

"Of course!" You're breathless and you're sure you have a stupid, dreamy look on your face.

"Ya _scared?"_

You laugh. "No, I'm fucking _excited. _I _own _it on DVD, but that's not very high quality. Laura Dern is fucking _amazing _in it. But I figured it was so old nobody really knew or cared about it. Fuck. This is fantastic."

"It's quite the work of art, isn't it?" Naminé still sounds quiet, almost watery. Perhaps she always sounds that way. She isn't _feeling _sad; you'd know if she was. The air would tell you. But you don't know what to do with her question. You've never heard that before - even if it _is _true. Roxas refuses to watch it with you; he says it fucks with his head. You never bother to point out its similarities to the inside of your head, and-

They're looking at you expectantly.

"Yeah," you say shortly. "I'm hungry. Have you ordered yet?" It's another lie. Being a chronic liar is a fairly recent development - lying about trivial things always seemed pointless, before. Now it feels as though you couldn't survive if you told the truth. In this new phase of your life - the one without Roxas' attentions keeping you away from the edge - you would go insane if you didn't keep yourself inside. You would spill out, tainting the air and forgetting how to feel.

"We just got drinks. She'll come back and we can all order together," Demyx replies. He is a good friend - you hate him for it. You don't understand what he could possibly see in you.

Naminé stares at you unashamedly. Her blue goes still, stops beating on the barrier, and the yellow retracts. It's almost as if she is trying to hide it from you. But that would be ridiculous; you don't have a color. Even if she could see them all, she wouldn't be able to see you, small and weak, cowering behind your hatred for her. It's possible she doesn't know about that hatred, either. She doesn't seem particularly frightened any more.

Maybe it was a bad idea to answer Demyx in the first place. You're just _so sick _of people that can't appreciate the finer things in life - the beautiful things in life. You have clients and you have your brother and you have your brother's boy, but beauty only applies when they're not paying attention to you.

And then there's Marluxia…

But he's too intelligent for a connection. He's on such a higher level…you bored him and you _hated _him and he found beauty in _you. _It never made sense, and now he hates you for hurting him. For leaving him when he starting being the kind of boyfriend Arlene wanted you to bring home.

But Demyx is different. He pushes you and challenges you and he simply doesn't give a fuck. He's a pacifist but he's not weak - you can tell. The way his hand felt when you met and he helped you up warned you and the way he never flinches when you hit him confirms it. Demyx is not the problem here; Naminé is.

"Hey! Larxene! You gonna order or what?"

Or perhaps…

"Ah, yeah. Whatever. Rose hip tea sounds fantastic."

Perhaps you're the problem.

Your appetite is nonexistent and you've a bitter taste in your mouth. Irritation and confusion and the irritating baby pink of anxiety. But you're going to eat. You want to look perfectly normal in front of Naminé…until you understand her.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Yes, tomato soup and a side of honey."

She looks at you oddly - probably wondering why you didn't just ask for honey in your tea - but quickly smiles. "All right, then. I'll have that out to you A-S-A-P."

"She was creepy," Demyx comments as soon as she's out of hearing range. "Did you see her eyes? They looked like they were about to pop out at any moment."

It's a safe topic of conversation, but you don't say anything. You just nod absently and carefully watch Naminé peripherally…a test. You want to see if she's _really _distracting - or if you're just distractible.

It's _so sick. _And so _beautiful._

It grows and grows in size, looming before you like sudden mist. No, like fog - the choking kind, which makes it difficult to breathe and almost impossible to see. The kind Arlene had to deal with when you drove through the Smoky Mountains on your way to Jamestown.

That was before Roxas left, and-

You're being stifled. You meet Naminé's eyes, and…how? How is it possible? She's so much bigger than you. She hasn't been growing; you've been shrinking. You can feel eyes all over your body and a feeling of lightness in the back of your head. Tight nerves and too little thought matter.

There's a lull in the slick peach sound of unimportant conversation and the radio opens up enough to let _Für Elise _drizzle onto you, into your ears. Deep blues and purples and the softest pine reassure you - this is real. You're only going crazy. You don't need to panic.

Colors come in from all around you, blocking out the sound of Naminé's voice. You know she's trying to get through to you, but -

"Ow, _fuck!" _At least your mouth works on its own, you think sourly. Tomato soup is running down your cheeks and neck and into the hem of your blouse and it's _hot. _A glance at Naminé shows her at your level. When did you grow? Or did the world shrink without your noticing?

"I'm so sorry!" The girl seems to be apologizing, though there's something wrong with her voice. It's all very far away.

You're stuck behind the veil again. You can't get out. The fog is crawling into your mouth, down your throat, into your veins by way of the theoretical heart in your chest. Demyx's eyes are melting. Oh, no…that's just his confusion. Eyes don't melt.

You're afraid to look at Naminé. You aren't sure what you'll see.

"It's…it's okay." Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can feel a tugging. That was the wrong thing to say. That's not what Larxene would say. What would Larxene say? What are the words you're supposed to use?

"I'm not very hungry anyway." That's not right either. "I'm just not paying for that." That's a little better. But you don't think that's how it was supposed to sound. Your voice is too soft. You're wringing your hands, like it's _your _fault. Like you're _embarrassed. _You -

That's right. You are Larxene Andersen. You don't take shit from people. This…this is ridiculous. "So anyway," you say derisively - the haze is somewhat cleared, thank the stars. "I figure we deserve some kind of compensation. It's Naminé's birthday today, so bring us a cake, little girl."

"But…" The girl looks shaken. You don't blame her - that doesn't stop it from being funny as hell, though.

"Oh, come on. I'm pretty sure this soup burn is going to leave nasty blisters. I _could _always report you…or you could fucking _bring us a cake."_

You don't even want a cake. It's the principle of the thing, really. Your days of being a quiet pushover are _over. _They've been over since…that thing you can't remember. It's petty and useless and that might bother you, but at this point you're just trying to get back on track.

"O-of course!"

The girl scurries off and you stand quickly. "I'm covered in soup, as you can see," you tell Demyx and his sister. "I'm going to head out. Here's ten for the tea."

"But-"

"_Really," _you stress.

"You said yourself, you just got burned pretty badly! Shouldn't you get medical attention?"

"Doctors are for pussies." It's not your truth. But it sounds like something Larxene would say. "I'm just going home."

The real truth is -

"Are you sure?"

"_Yes."_

The real truth is that being burned, looking ridiculous, and having to endure curious, amused stares…are the only things keeping you grounded right now. You can't risk going out in front of a doctor.

You're just outside the door - how did you get here? - when you feel a hand rest softly on your shoulder. You didn't give anyone permission to touch you - but the hand catches your wrist when you try to lash out.

"Hey! I need my pretty face," says Demyx. He has, apparently, followed you out. He's such a good friend. You _hate _him for it.

"Well leave me alone then."

"I will. I just wanted to make sure you…uh, I wanted to see if you'll be okay? Or if you need us to give you a ride home?"

"I'll be _fine. _Just…go away."

You feel something like concern, and it's not coming from you. This is one of the best and worst parts of being in public; you lose yourself in the river of emotion flowing from one person to another.

"You seem really agitated. I mean more than usual. If you need anything…"

It's something like anger - but it isn't anger. Your throat is tight and your eyes are burning. They're too wide and it's much too obvious you're about to cry. But…you never cry. It just doesn't happen.

"I just…have you ever wanted…to just disappear?"

"Like die?" He's holding you tighter, like he's afraid you _will _disappear if he lets go. You're not certain it's unfounded.

"No. Just…never mind. Let go. I need to get cleaned up."

"You can always-"

"Get. The. Fuck. Away from me." You're surprised at the lack of satisfaction you feel when he lets go your wrist. It's an almost invisible sadness - you're still going to cry and you have no idea why. This isn't _Larxene._

"Demyx? Are you coming back in?"

As soon as he turns toward his sister's voice, you take the opportunity to slip away. You don't understand what his motive is and you don't understand why he's affecting you so much today. This has never been an issue before, and you've known him for at least three months.

Everything's frustrating. It's to be expected; today _is _your birthday.

You hate your birthday. You don't care about getting older; you just hate the date. Because of Roxas. He has to choose between celebrating your birthday or celebrating Valentine's Day. There never used to be a difference.

Until _Axel._

* * *

Leaving was one of the worst ideas you've ever had, but you can't focus on that. The world is shifting around you and for the first time in a long time, the change gives you an immense sense of peace. You can hear the whispers of light snowflakes as they pass each other by your ears. It smells exactly like eleven fifty-seven at night on the fourteenth of February, light and foamy and so, so pale. You can feel midnight coming and there's a patch of starry sky peeking at you from behind the curtain-like clouds. It's almost midnight but because of the thick clouds, the empty square looks more grey than black.

The cold pecking of snow on the tops or your ears and on your cheekbones sends something like hot chills through you, forcing you to open your mouth wider. The cold air kisses the back of your throat and you smile, for no reason at all.

You're in the first district, in the front corner of the open-air restaurant they close during the winter months, but this is also too hard to process. The pristine white sound of snow falling lulls you into a state of semi-consciousness - whatever you stole from Roxas has done something amazing to you.

It's almost like disappearing - you're shut away in a place nobody can see. You're allowed to breathe. You're allowed to listen. You don't need to be nervous; no one else is here. You're free to _be _nobody. You don't have to pretend you have a definite role in the scope of human existence.

You are nothing. And because of Roxas' pills, that's okay.

Your body is shaking and your fingers are stiff. Why? This relaxed state makes it difficult to find answers. But you don't really want answers. You don't want to think. Thinking only makes things more complicated, and you've never been able to stop before.

So you lean your head back against the wall and close your eyes and just…

Just _breathe._

In, out. In, out. Your throat sings and although the snow has stopped, you can still hear the pale whispers. You are not alone.

"_**Oh, fuck, Larxene!"**_

Your eyelids are too heavy to raise, so you don't bother to try. The startled voice is melodic. Soothing. Like honeyed autumn, and you don't really wonder if you've heard it before. You're drifting, even now that you're awake again.

"_**Larx? Say something."**_

Now the voice is borderline frantic. You don't care why. You just want it to go away.

"Shut up," you slur. It's hard to speak, so you decide to stop.

"_Heh. Still the same, even in a situation like this. Here, take that arm. I can't carry her by myself."_

"_It's probably not a good idea to move her," _another voice remarks. This one is also tentatively familiar, knocking against the calm barrier surrounding your brain. It's a nice voice - soft, deep blue, salami on a Wednesday afternoon.

"_Why?"_

"_We don't know what caused the injury on her head. She may be injured in other critical areas."_

"_Dude, she's probably…like hypothermic. At this point I don't care. It'll take them three hours to process a care request, since all I know is her first name and her birthday. Even your influence won't do anything. So if you're not going to help me, I'll do it myself. But that just makes you a fucking heartless asshole."_

You hear a quiet sigh, and then feel someone moving your arms. It's not a nice sensation; you just want to stay in this spot. You're shaking, but it's a nice warm feeling, and your arms hurt now. "Stop."

"_Sorry, Larxene." _It's the autumn voice again. _"The hell'd you do to yourself? I knew I should have seen you home…"_

Suddenly there's something soft under you, and something else on top of you, and you can hear murmurs of something _Else. _Someone's playing a piano somewhere. Or maybe you aren't hearing anything at all. Something's screaming fire red into your ears and it's impossible to make out words.

You're still tired. Why did those people wake you?

"_Don't go back to sleep," _the voice says - not the autumn voice, but the other one. The softer one. It's right by your left ear. That person could bite you and you wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Tired," you say. Your mouth feels awkward, like it's grown or shrunk since you last used it. Or perhaps it's your tongue. It's the wrong size.

There's nothing but the insides of flames now. It reminds you of something. Someone. You don't know names or faces and you don't care to - it's just a familiar discomfort. Yellow and thick, just red enough to be tolerable.

"_Hey, help me get her out of here," _says the autumn voice. You try to open your mouth and swallow the honey, but you can't reach and you can't even breathe in the smell.

"_I still think this is a bad idea."_

"_And I still think it would be stupid to take her to the hospital. The ER is always packed and we're already doing what they'll tell us to do. I've got cure shots at the house, so it's not like she'll die or anything, because of the warming side-effects. Traverse Town's hospitals are useless anyway."_

"_And her head?"_

"_We just have to keep her awake. I'll ask Nam to keep her company when I have to leave for school."_

School. You don't like the word, or the feeling it presents. You don't know why - but it doesn't matter. He hasn't said it again, and he probably won't. You're being moved anyway; it's cold and then hot and then cold again, and you have yet to open your eyes.

You don't want to do it. You just want to sleep. Sleep is a rare pleasure.

"_Larxene! Open your eyes!"_

The voice is insistent and this time, the urgent tone affects your resolve. You're half awake now anyway - but when did you fall asleep again?

A figure slides in and out of your vision, vague and misty and trapped behind a veil of something like aquamarine and thick, suffocating concern.

"Demyx?" You think that's his name. Everything is fuzzy and you don't even have enough energy to hate him for depriving you of rest.

"She speaks! She knows me! Sweet!" You think he's joking, but you can't tell. _Fuzz. Everywhere._

"_Dem…?" _There's a fainter voice. A girl's. It's thick and blurry with sleep and it makes you feel cold inside. It's a completely different kind of silver mist and it invades your ears with excessive force. A hostile takeover of your brain.

"_What the…what are you _doing?" Shrill cry. You want to push it away.

"_Calm down, Nami! It's just Larxene."_

"_Just _Larxene? Demyx, she's bleeding on your pillow and you've undressed her!"

You're bleeding? Why? And when did he remove your clothes? You don't remember feeling that at all. You feel something pull tight around you - tighter, rather - and you realize it's a blanket. Something is wrong here.

"_Well, what was I supposed to do? Take her to the hospital? She's cold."_

"**So basically you brought her here because you thought you could take care of her better than **_**professionals? **_**Dem, what the…what is going **_**on?"**_

Your ears can't take any more. That voice is getting louder and louder, echoing, bouncing around the inside of your empty skull. It's so potent you can taste it on your tongue.

You've never tasted anything so sweet. It's disgusting. You can't stand to look at the scene any more, so you close your eyes.

"Shut up!" There's only the sound of breathing, and your voice still sounds shaky. You couldn't pronounce 'shut' properly. You stuttered over your consonants. It's…

You're _sick. _You've not been sick in years, but you're _sick._

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. It's still a sick, sweet sound. Like strawberry soda, only silvery and freezing and not bubbly at all.

"…I'm gonna take him home," says Demyx.

"And you want me to take care of her?" That voice…

It's Demyx's sister. Naminé.

Fuck.

"Yeah, if you can. If you can't, then…well, I guess he gets to sleep in _your _room. He's got an early class. We can call Doc in a couple of hours. What do you say?"

"Of course I'll do it! I just…Demyx…"

"You'll be fine. Just keep her warm. And _awake. _I'll be back soon."

You don't want to hear any more. Detaching from coherency is so much easier than trying to _be _coherent…so you let sound and smell overwhelm you. You watch Naminé's color boil and tentatively reach toward you -

And you don't react to it. You're already slipping away.

Much later, you're still shaking slightly, but there's someone called 'Doc' shining a light into your eyes and asking questions. You do your best to answer them without drawing out of your special full state, where you can only see, smell, hear and taste. Color. There are no words or faces or personal smells. But the light brings you out of it. He has bunchy white hair drawn around the sides of his head like a broken halo, presenting a very bald crown. He's short and he looks kind.

"Other than being hypothermic," he says, rubbing his hands together, "you seem to be okay. There's no concussion. The shuts are callow - tucks are lacko - you don't have to worry about bleeding out. May I ask - why are there cuts on your body?"

"No idea."

"You don't remember anything?"

"Just wanted to paint. Then I fell asleep."

"There may be a case of assault in this situation, but more than likely, they're shelf-lificted. Sell-flickillid." He sighs. "She did them herself, probably on a whim prompted by the drug in her system."

"Drug? Larxene's not a druggie. She doesn't do drugs. Someone probably gave it to her. She's too cool for drugs."

"Well, it looks like Zenthrax, something new that kids sell on the streets…I'll see what I can find out, all right?"

"Yeah, any suggestions?"

"Keep her warm. She's allowed to sleep, but keep an eye on it. If she seems to be getting worse, or _can't _wake up, ring me immediately."

"Okay, Doc. Thanks. I'll see you next month, for annual spring checks?"

"Yes, Mr. Nocturne. Pleasure to see you, as always. Doog-bay. Dude-gay." He sighs once more. "Good-_day."_

You could die of shame. When you went out, your intention was not to get sick. They're giving you too much attention. You want to disappear.

* * *

The word of the day is milquetoast. Definition: Naminé. Age twenty-one, saturated in melted margarine yellow. It covers the box she wears to keep herself and her true color safe, dripping down the sides. It battles with the blue. But so far -

That repulsive, consuming color is _still there._

But she doesn't notice. Somewhere in a small corner of your mind, you know she can't see it because it's not there. But _you_ see what _is not there. _And in another place, another time, you'd be in some kind of _institution. _Alice Liddell used to call it seeing auras, but that was only when she tripped all the way to the Land of Wonder and back. Your mother, constantly trying to make up for her mistakes, called it a 'gift.' Marluxia told you that you see in color and it was absolutely beautiful. You left the next day - just refused to see him and refused to pal around with Alice and refused to open the door to that other girl, the one that kept thinking she was a mermaid when we shot up - what was her name? Ariel? Ariel Triton.

"Why are you staring at me?"

You jump - you weren't _staring, _you were just unfocused in a random direction - and say, "It's because I'm completely enthralled by you. You're such a charming, beautiful person. I want you to know that. I can't _stop _looking at you."

You flutter your eyelashes for effect, pulling the blankets tighter around you. At this point, after so many days, they're no longer needed; but they make you somehow safer. From _her._

"…You're not a very nice person," she replies.

"No, I'm not a nice person at all."

It seems that she doesn't have a response; but it's not as if you were expecting one. You're afraid of her, so you hate her, and the glare on your face should be enough to tell her than words, from her, are unwanted. Unnecessary.

She makes for an amazing picture. That blue…you've never seen something like her before. She has beautiful eyes, but even they pale in comparison. You've seen plenty of blues before, in people and in tubes of paint, but this is…

You'd call it cerulean, but it isn't. You'd call it cornflower, but it isn't. It's closer to cobalt - and sky on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer - and thick veins under thin skin - and a view of the ocean from the top floor of a beachfront hotel.

It's really impossible to classify.

And it surrounds her person, holding her tightly, glaring at the yellow intruder. It seems as though something has dimmed - there's more blue, less yellow. She's different. _No one _changes like this - but no one has two colors, either. Only invaders when they lie.

_She's _staring at _you _now, curious and tentative. You notice - for the first time - when she reaches out, the yellow doesn't go anywhere.

Perhaps she _does _know about it. Perhaps it's intentional - a barrier to keep people at a distance. You don't know if that's possible at all, but it's not as if you have a color to manipulate anyway. She feels _wrong, _but you think she might know. Her eyes are pinned to you, pinned to _yours, _and you're so angry you don't react. You want to jump up, throw away the covers, and slap her out of the chair, knock her over so you don't have to look at her.

It's funny. You're thinking like an abusive spouse. You're thinking like a playground bully. You're thinking like the thugs who -

It's funny, so you laugh.

It feels good to laugh.

As if your laughter was some kind of invitation, Naminé's lips quirk up at the corners, and her chest heaves a little. Small, almost nonexistent noises escape her. She's _laughing. _You don't know if she's laughing because of her nervousness or because you're being stupid and she can't help it, but the sound is chimes in major keys and silver, like her voice. Cold, like her voice. Sweet. You hate it, even though -

It _is _beautiful.

You still hate the feeling developing between your brother and Axel, so you can still hate her. Beauty doesn't have to be loved. It just can't be destroyed, unless destruction makes it even more beautiful. Like the woman on the news, found by the owner of the House of Merlin. Brunette, brown eyes, with the most beautiful lips anyone could imagine. Hands artfully resting on her heart.

She had been made doubly beautiful, however, by the blossoms of blood on her chest and stomach.

You're not laughing any more. Naminé is quiet again, eyeing you like a small animal would a predator. How can one person switch feelings so much? How is she able to function?

And she's _still _so captivating…

"Do you want to see it?"

The question catches you off-guard. Through the haze of your imagination, you realize her lips had been moving - you just hadn't heard. Her presence, the screaming of your nerves and the shifting of her color…you were overwhelmed. You still are, but now your ears are working.

"What?"

"The picture. I drew it while you were asleep. I couldn't resist." Her voice is still misty, still watery, still absolutely _terrifying _and _gorgeous _and if you can't pull out, you'll be stuck inside her heart forever. You'll suffocate and she'll never know. She'll kill you.

"Sure." At least interacting will keep you from sinking under. It's so _difficult._

It doesn't look much like you. The form curled under the covers is peaceful, and her bangs are as obnoxious as yours, but Naminé has…made her beautiful. You know that with the right posture and the right amount of makeup you can pretend you're beautiful - you can even convince others of your beauty - but it doesn't exist. Mirrors never lie to you. It's a matter of projection, but you can't fool yourself. You can pretend, but you can never _be._

But Naminé…Naminé has made you beautiful in her drawing. It's flattery of the crudest sort. How - how _dare _she.

"Doesn't look a bit like me," you say. Your tone is full of derision and you raise one eyebrow - again, only for effect.

"What do you mean? This is exactly what I saw. I know it's not perfect, but-"

"That's not me. That's just a sleeping chick with the same hairstyle. You've really got to get your eyes checked, _little girl."_

"Not that little," she murmurs, and it's almost melancholy. Ridiculous and not quite annoying, but close enough.

"Whatever. That's not the point."

"I think you look remarkably beautiful when you sleep," she informs you. It's like fire in your blood and ants on your skin.

"Whatever," you say again.

After a long pause - painfully full of nameless feeling and silence heavy enough to clog your throat - she speaks again, quietly. "Demyx said you're an artist?"

"I used to be." You're not as indifferent as your voice makes you sound. It's Axel's fault, all of it. You miss the feel of a brush in your hand, splotches of paint on casual clothing you've now thrown away, the absolute _peace _which comes from shutting yourself in a room and bringing canvases to life. But since Roxas has focused on _him, _everything you create is superficial, childish. Color is superfluous and your eyes can't bear such atrocity.

"Once an artist, always an artist," she remarks. She's got a small smile on her face - so small, in fact, that you don't think she knows it's there.

It lights up her eyes in a distinctly familiar way. You can tell what she's feeling, what she's imagining. You want a part in it and you want no part in it and this paradoxical impossibility makes your head spin.

But it's nothing to worry about. You don't believe in paradoxes. The whole world flows too smoothly and so gracefully - nothing is truly contradictory. Phrases like 'paradox' and 'impossibility' are simply convenient. You can ignore the shifting of the universe when you use them, even silently in the privacy of your own consciousness.

Something feels distinctly familiar about this scenario. It makes you nervous.

"I can imagine you with a little splotch of green on your forehead, where you accidentally brushed your hand when it had paint on it," she continues, as though you actually approve of the subject. The feeling only gets stronger and you have to quell the urge to run out of the room.

"You've got a red skirt on. It's a little short, but it looks great on you. Your black shirt is unbuttoned at the bottom - you just got your belly button pierced and someone told you it should be shown off. You don't really want to show it off, but you want to please this person. You're late to meet someone, so you start running."

She smiles at you. "It's such a pretty-"

But you're falling, vision blurry, so full of intense fear and hatred that you don't notice when -

* * *

There's a defining moment in life - everyone has one. Some people have two or three, but there's always _one _you look back on and think _damn. _Because it changed your life. It changed the way you thought, the way you felt, the way you looked at things. And even if you don't remember…you can't forget.

I was standing there, blood on my clothes, one booted foot on the ground and the other on his chest, head cocked to one side. Looking at him. There was a little smile on my face, the amused kind that comes with too much adrenaline and too little seriousness. The kind that means you're going to cry when it's all over.

"Please," he said. "Please, stop!"

I laughed. I thought it was because I found it funny. In some ways, I did find it funny. And in others, I still do. There I was, almost seventeen, six feet tall and just over a hundred pounds. There I was, a junkie, a slut, an ugly bitch who got attacked because she bowled over and immediately mouthed off to the wrong guy. The one I had spent a month avoiding, because he wanted me and even if I'd wanted him, I had a boyfriend that wasn't two years older than me and treated me like I really deserved to be treated.

There I was, standing in my little red skirt over that six-foot-four _sack _of _solid muscle - _and he was begging me to stop.

I wasn't strong. I wasn't brave. I'd never fought anyone alone, never cared about working out or…anything like that. Addicted to running, sure, but he could definitely take me. Anyone could take me. It was perhaps because I was afraid to hurt people, or because it wasn't my place to act that way, or perhaps even a little of both - but I'd never even considered doing what I did to him.

Until he'd pinned me down. Girls like the girl I was - eager to please, pacifistic, _weak - _are easy. Girls like that are the kind you go after if you don't want a challenge. If you're looking for a power trip as attainable as an A in kindergarten. If you're looking for someone you can scare into doing things for you, since even when you're her _rapist, _she feels that urge to _cater. _She _needs _to do what you say, to be your slave.

She _needs _to have orders, because in the end, she's too weak to take care of herself.

She knows because she's been told.

But I didn't want it to happen. Adrenaline kicked in and by the time I was finished, _I_ had a black eye and a bleeding cut on the back of my head. I would eventually be told I had a concussion, and I would eventually be punished for going out alone, because _haven't you learned how weak you are? Haven't you learned that you can't take care of yourself? You're so stupid._

But _he _looked like something out of a bad horror film. His mouth was full of blood, from the bite in his tongue and his broken nose. I had blood in _my_ mouth and on my palm, from those. His ribs were cracked from the kick I'd given him. The back of his head was bleeding from the knock he got when I pushed him down onto the pavement. And he was having trouble breathing, since my foot was crushing him.

And he begged.

"Please," he said. "Please, stop!"

This is the point at which I considered killing him.

This is the point at which I had a choice, a life-changing choice. This was my defining moment.

When the authorities came, I was hysterical and his eyes were closed. They took us both to the hospital, even though I didn't really need it. I explained the situation with agitated passion born of two days without a fix, and the tremors were explained away as adrenaline and shock.

Nobody ever pressed charges. It was self-defense, after all. And as for him…well, he's dead. He died on his back, head against cement, drowning in his own blood.

I'm very upset that I wasn't the one who killed him. But back then, I was still the weak little girl who needed orders and safety and the comfort of getting punished for being stupid. Back then, I was appalled at my actions. I never fully explained it to Marluxia. I only took out the ring and pretended it was never there in the first place.

I clung to him desperately but I couldn't look him in the eye. I lost myself in our latest experiments and our tried and true stress relievers. I couldn't pay attention in classes, because of all the drugs, but I went anyway, because I had nothing distracting at home and I wasn't allowed to skip by myself; it was one of Marluxia's rules. I pushed Alice - Allie - away and I pretended Ariel didn't exist and I only spoke when told.

A year later, Roxas came back and…something.

* * *

- you're on your hands and knees over a mess of your own vomit and trembling. You're horrified and exhausted and _how the fuck did you even forget that. _And why can't you remember the rest.

"Larxene? Come on, please talk to me!" It's a silvery voice and chills run through your entire body and oh yes, it's _Naminé, _of _course _it's Naminé, this is all her fault anyway. She's fucking _psychic _or something and she has _no right _to see you like this.

No right.

You grab her hand anyway, and squeeze it until she cries out in pain. The sound brings you back and you only let go when you're sure you can stand without difficulty.

"I'm leaving," you say.

"But-"

"If you try and stop me, I'll kill you." Your voice is extra harsh, and she shrinks away. She believes you.

It's probably the truth anyway.

* * *

The first thing you do, after showering and brushing your teeth, is pull on your old sneakers and go outside. It's not yet morning, so the world is dark and quiet and for once, the quiet is so soothing you want to thank whatever's out there. The universe, maybe.

The moment is gone, however, before it's properly registered, and you're off. It's a route you know so well you could trace it in your sleep; but you don't want to sleep. You _never _want to sleep. And it's probably stupid to be out, in the cold, exerting your body like this.

You _don't. Fucking. Care. _You _need _this. This is the only thing you can do to get your mind off the things you saw at Demyx's house. This is the only way you can keep yourself from going back and apologizing. Larxene Andersen doesn't apologize to anyone any more. Silence is a virtue; distance is a gift.

The cold air seeps into your cuts and you sigh in pleasure. It's like healing water or toothpaste in the eyes. You know why they're there, but you'll never tell a soul - they don't need to know just how fucked up you really are. They don't need to know you tore your own skin open in an attempt to block out the silence, before giving it up as a bad job and swallowing Roxas' pills dry.

The sharp, grey sounds of your feet connecting with salted pavement is a familiar comfort, and - without pausing - you pull out your pocket player and switch it on. Now you can listen to _real _music. Mozart and Beethoven and Liszt and Mendelssohn and _all _the great artists, the way they _should _be. Raw and beautiful. It took you years to track down the original versions; and you're never _truly _proud of _anything _you do, though you can pretend very well in front of others, but you're proud of your collection. You have other music, too, which was easier to find. But classical music is so beautiful. It's the only beautiful part of you, trapped inside your soul.

It floats into your ears like colored clouds riding on the breeze, and you know when you lose yourself in it, you won't notice a thing. You won't remember brutalizing your attacker. You won't remember your stupid mistake on your birthday. You won't remember you're running, even.

It's just you and the only natural high you've ever found.

* * *

I had a dream, once, which was mine. I'd only dreamed of others, before - as though I was that other person, and I never knew who that person was - but I dreamed of myself. It was right after Roxas left.

In my dream, I told my mother the truth about my fall down the stairs. She became angry and started shouting - in general. She wasn't shouting at anything specific.

After, she grabbed her chest. It ripped open and her heart fell out, through her hand and onto the floor. Then, she looked at me and held my gaze until she died.

Roxas came into the room. Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame.

He moved his mouth and said, "You were supposed to sit tight and let me find a way. Now you've killed her and we have to stay here forever!"

When I opened my eyes, I was puzzled. The entire dream had been written. I'd read my dream, in my dream, and I'd seen the pictures in the same way I saw pictures when I read books.

I wondered why I even dreamed in quotes.

But then I decided to forget about it. This was the day I was going to become a person.

* * *

Axel's attempts to get Roxas' attention might make you laugh, any other time, but you are not amused. You aren't annoyed, either, like you would be on a bad day. You aren't anything. You're nothing again, just part of the world, an observer of beauty and soul and humanity at its finest.

It never ceases to amaze you. Every person in the world is ridiculous and stupid. And your observations are not hypocritical because you are even more stupid than they are. You just know how to pretend.

Mostly.

Axel wants Roxas to at least _look _at him, but Roxas refuses, because he's focused on you. He wants you to tell him what the _fuck _is going on with you. Why were you missing? Do you realize you stiffed Marluxia? Why are you sick? What did you _do _to yourself? Do you realize how worried I - _Axel _was?

You don't understand it. You left because sex between your brother and Axel is nauseating and they were going at it when you got home. You thought they'd appreciate the alone time - and you didn't do it for their sakes, but you don't understand why he'd worry about you.

You don't understand a lot of things. You don't understand because you're not part of them. You _used_ to worry about things like this, but it's different now, and you were under the impression that Roxas had _always _been the way you are now.

"What the fuck," he says for what has to be the fifth time in the last few minutes. He looks at you and he looks…hopeless. He thinks he's useless.

And it's so unnerving that you speak without your own permission. "I was with a friend and his sister. We went to dinner and then saw Inland Empire at the theater. I went home with them and-"

"Don't be stupid, Larx." He gives you a critical look. "You're a great liar, but you can never lie to me."

Axel extends his hand, like he wants to touch Roxas on the shoulder or the face, but he draws it away. He looks so pathetic and needy that you…

You feel…_sorry _for him. You _pity _him. That hasn't happened in _years._

"I…really _was _with Demyx and Naminé," you say quietly. The atmosphere is suffocating you with rosy pressure, like a bag over your head. Neither Roxas nor Axel notices. It's _maddening, _but you've come to expect ignorance. _They_ aren't crazy. _They _don't see things that aren't there.

"Yes, Larxene, I got that." You resist the urge to kick him in the ribs. You're not a _child. _You're really just a stupid girl, but you _can _follow a conversation. You don't appreciate the condescension in his tone and the way he slowed the sentence.

"You guys were fucking when I got home. I didn't feel like sticking around, so I left. Went to the first district. Got cold. Went home with Demyx and some other guy I don't know. At least, I didn't recognize his…" You stop for a moment. Roxas can't know you got sick. He can't know you were careless like that. He can't see you weak. "His face."

"Well, I believe you. I know you're not really telling me everything, but I'm not your keeper. Just figured I'd make sure you weren't cornered in an _alley _somewhere." Lines of deep red venom fall out of his mouth and make lines to your ears. He hasn't lost his temper - he doesn't have to do that. The sudden shift in atmosphere is enough to throw you off balance completely.

"Speaking of," you hear yourself say, "what do you know about the time I fucked up a guy when I was a teenager?"

"I…" He looks at you oddly. He's _confused. _How can he be confused? The subject is straightforward enough. "What do _you _know about it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," you shoot back. "I have a pretty good memory. I just wanted to verify some things."

"You don't remember," he says. "You don't fucking _remember. _How can you not remember something like _that?"_

"How could _you _forget your _family? _Huh? How could you forget your _promise? _It's probably the same reason, _brother dearest." _He's such a hypocrite. You wish you could hate him.

"You're not being fair! _I _hit my head. I couldn't remember _anything _for two _fucking _years. What's _your_ excuse, huh? All that shit you put in your body finally fucking your mind up?"

"I just don't remember, okay?" You feel that tight, nasal sensation again. It's…you're going to cry. You're going to _lose it. _You are absolutely ridiculous and there's nothing you can do to stop irrational hysteria from shooting out of your mouth like steam from an ancient train."I don't _remember! _And I don't _remember _why I don't remember but mocking me isn't going to do anything! Why can't you just be a _normal _person and _tell me? _Tell me what happened when you came back!"

Suddenly there's nothing except white silence coated with a thin layer of pale pink anxiety and the taste of anticipation. It's sickly sweet, like Naminé's voice. You'd love it, if the sweetness was milder and something bitter like annoyance was added. Roxas isn't speaking, but Axel's hand is being held and there are ribbons forming slowly, slowly like rocks being worn down by time and rushing water. It hurts, in your chest and in your head.

Roxas makes a thick, wet noise with his throat and tongue before speaking forests, healing green and life and darkness. "You were in really bad shape after that second guy. Marluxia was pretty good about keeping you safe, but…well, you know how it was back then. You weren't…able to take care of yourself. You pretty much invited trouble - subconsciously, probably. You were the biggest pushover anyone had ever met, and-"

"I already _know _that." Verbal reminders of your weakness, which hasn't truly left you at all but looks much different now, send bolts of electricity through your body, under your skin, following bone and brushing against veins like teasing or like death.

"I just…I didn't want to see you go through that. I didn't want you to…be like…how you were. So I told you things. I made you hurt and I made you angry and I finally got you to attack me. I thought you remembered and just never said anything…and perhaps that's true, I wouldn't know…but that scar on my collarbones is from you. You lost it and grabbed Arlene's paring knife off the cutting board."

"I wasn't strong enough to overpower you," you say flatly. The story is off. You don't understand.

"No, you weren't. I could have fought you off, but I didn't. I _wanted _you to attack me. To see how strong you could be. To realize you didn't have to bow down to people - you're different, Larx. Special. I wanted you to _stop _being that person, because you're too good for that and anyone with eyes can see that."

"I'm _not _fucking _special," _you snarl, scooting to the corner of the couch. He's issuing a challenge, or…something. It doesn't make _sense. _You don't understand it and if you really _were _special, at least you would get the hidden meaning. "I'm just crazy. Just stupid and crazy and-"

You don't see it before it comes. You do hear it, though, sunset and candy and thunder. Your mouth hurts and he looks like he'll kill you. Slick, beautiful _somethings _slide around inside you, and you _hate _yourself when you have to bite your lip and close your eyes to hide the effect it has on you. He's never hit you before, outside of acknowledged stress-relieving squabbles, but you've always hit him back. Until now. This…this is different.

"You're not crazy. You're _not. _Just...shut the fuck _up."_

"I wish we knew where Arlene was," says Axel, voice soft like old slippers.

"Why?"

"Because I'd really kind of like to tear her apart for doing this to her."

It's so _unexpected _and so _strange _and…he's telling the _truth. _You still don't understand. You've been rivals for Roxas' attention ever since Roxas came home with Axel in tow like a bitchy, violent duckling.

"It'd be easy." Roxas is agreeing. And unlike Axel, Roxas is always absolutely ruthless. It's a viable scenario and it's the most frightening thing he's ever said.

"You'd…get thrown in the sky prison," you say, cursing the shake in your voice. It's from something like adrenaline or dread and you can always see feeling in the air, shooting arrows and flowing like magma below the surface, mushroom clouds or pain or even bubbles like water. Pockets, and -

But you can never see your own feeling. It's because you don't have a color. You're not truly alive. It's like you have no real emotions in the first place - you obviously do, but it never seems that way.

"Axel would probably kill himself trying to get you out of there. You'd fucking disappear forever and to be honest, I'm not-" You stop, backtrack. He doesn't want to hear you say you're not worth it, and you don't want to say it anyway. This has never been a problem, but…perhaps he thought you were joking before. "I'm not sure she's even worth it. I don't hate her. I don't feel enough for her to hate her. She's _not _available anyway, so it's not even an issue."

And it's not her fault, but you don't say that. You were born this way. You've always been defective…it's just easier to hide it now and he's still not used to the change.

"I'd only be imprisoned if they could prove it. And I don't really have a functioning conscience. Love is stronger than regret, and I wouldn't regret it anyway."

"Shut up. You don't love me." The ribbons are still there, but they've got to be yours only. They can't be mutual. It wouldn't make sense. "I can see more ri - you're falling in love. With _him." _

Axel looks bewildered - he is - and Roxas doesn't look to be feeling anything at all, on the surface, but you can feel it. You can see it. He's embarrassed and angry and it's not like it should come as a surprise to him. They're _his _feelings.

Finally, Roxas replies, "I wouldn't cut ties with you, even _if _he somehow wormed his way into my little black heart." But he squeezes Axel's hand and shifts closer to him, like he's some kind of strength, some kind of backup. On the couch in front of the black screen of the television, it's suddenly clear. It's you, and it's Them. There's no room for you any more.

You don't bother to tell him it's already happened. He's easily twice as smart as you, and if you can see it…then he already knows, and it's just a matter of time before he stops lying to himself.

"I'm hurt, Roxas," Axel says dramatically, putting the hand not connected to Roxas' over his heart and making a convincing pained face. It's convincing because it's real and it's not real because he always expects that kind of thing.

You laugh at the absurdity, against your own advice. Roxas laughs at what he thinks is a joke and Axel laughs because it's required, if he doesn't want to scare Roxas into leaving him.

The tension isn't broken for you, but it is for them, and it doesn't even matter any more, does it? It's _always _been this way. You're separated from the rest of the world, behind a veil of color and light and music. You're alone. And it shouldn't hurt, because this is routine.

This _is _your reality.


	2. Chapter 2

It's _so _easy to lose yourself when you didn't have a 'self' to begin with.

In this winter you've covered all the bases - curiosity, remembrance, terror - and you're sliding into spring, wet from melting snow and dirty from the inside out. You've seen things, done things, ruined things, but you can't remember most of them because you were too busy looking. You were too busy trying to win a losing battle.

But it's time to accept it. Life: one. Larxene: two. But _negative _two - that _is _possible, if the rest of your life doesn't make sense either. From a distance it seems like you've won, because you're _still alive, _but you can't guarantee that will last for very much longer and it doesn't scare you like it should.

To die, after all, will be an awfully big adventure. And perhaps in death, you'll find your missing pieces. You don't think you want to die - not _really - _but living in a constant shade of _nothing _is no different.

Running down the street just before dawn is like being in Allie's Land of Wonder. For the first time, you wonder how she is - you still have her number. You might give her a call. She was always such an interesting person…and you don't miss her, but you might miss her if you could miss anything.

It's all so _funny. _It all makes you laugh. Long bloody fingers reach out to you every time you hear the thunder - it's going to rain soon, and you can't wait. Usually being in water is like being electrocuted, but rain is different. Rain is calming. It kisses your face like the mother you never wanted and now…

Perhaps if you'd been more responsive, she'd have felt like you wanted her to _be _your mother. It's your fault, all of it; Roxas is wrong about her, but he likes having people to blame, and you know he'd never blame you. He wants to keep his delusions. He wants to believe you're some kind of special.

You don't know where you're going until finally, you're there. It's the first district, and you might be surprised if you could be. A tall building and a small shop create an alleyway which leads to _The _Alleyway - the dwelling place of all the whores and junkies who have nowhere else to go. The place you lived before you really took off.

You're not sure whether being comfortable with your job is a good thing or a bad thing, but it doesn't matter. It's all routine, anyway. Mechanical. You haven't seen Marluxia in weeks and none of your other clients matter.

There's absolutely no one on the streets and it's like a ghost town in the dim, grey-blue light. The dilapidated life-sized snowman in front of the shop at the top of the stairs waves to you, moonlight shards making the snow pile glitter strangely. But it's not _really _waving to you. You just feel it - perhaps it's not the one welcoming you.

It's just the world. You're part of it and it's part of you and it's strange, that you feel it. You haven't felt it in a long time. You've been trying too hard to become part of People, part of a scene you usually can't handle.

A small chime sounds when you open the door - this is a special shop. The woman opens at five and closes at eight; early birds like you get first pick of -

This was probably a mistake. You can't paint any more. You tried, once; you spent six hours in front of a blank canvas, acrylic tubes spread on your side table and ready to be used, but nothing came. That was the first and only time you used a knife to slash up precious material, but you knew it didn't matter.

Inspiration was gone.

But here you are, in Fantasia, the best place to find everything an artist could ever want. Nothing has changed. You can close your eyes and inhale the magic and it's like living.

You naturally gravitate toward the paints. Roxas once joked you had paint running through your veins instead of blood - and you responded by slitting your wrist and smearing it on canvas to complete your picture. It looked fuller and beautiful and…

Perhaps that's what's missing. You've denied yourself so long…

"Oh! I'm surprised to see _you _here! I thought you said you only _used _to do this stuff!" It's the silvery voice - the one haunting you, running through your dreams. You can feel her everywhere…how did you not notice before? She fills up the entire room.

You've only met her once. _Once. _But that was enough. She's Demyx's little sister, and you know Demyx won't give up on you. He has a naïve tendency to think the best of people. And so by proxy, she's part of your life too.

It doesn't matter that you hate her. You can't resist beautiful things.

"I _don'_t paint any more. I came here accidentally." Your voice is lackluster - it knows you only want that to be true. You're losing control.

What a fucking _joke. _You can feel your lips raise up into a smile without your permission. It's like you're a puppet and the world is your puppeteer. It's just your fortune to be a good actress. You can always pretend you did it on purpose.

"Well, I'm glad you came. I…well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. You left so suddenly, and Demyx hasn't seen you in a while…"

"Don't talk about it. I'm fine." You want to be fine. "It was nothing." You want it to be nothing. "I was just getting claustrophobic. I needed air."

She looks at you oddly and -

She's the odd one. Her second color is much thinner today - it seems to be bowing out of the way, almost, like it wants you there. It wants to swallow you as well. You feel welcomed. But it's like being welcomed into a furnace. If you accept the invitation, you could get burned. Or you could die.

You've always suffered from red-button syndrome. It's a weakness and sometimes you can't help yourself; you know when things will hurt you, but you want them anyway.

It's overwhelming now. And your mouth cements your idea when it says, "What do you say to tea at Mrs. Potts' after this?"

You don't want to do _anything _with her. She's…going to kill you one day. But -

"I'd love to. You know, Demyx has been really worried about you…"

"Well, he's stupid for worrying. I can take care of myself - I've been doing it for years." You smile at her, and it's one of the nicest smiles you've ever displayed. Unfortunately - for her - it doesn't mean a thing. You're deceptively sweet…it's the hook your clients love. It's the entertainment for Roxas and Axel. And, if you ever snapped, it's the kind of comfort your victims might feel before you tore them apart.

"Well…" She stops, laughs. The blue underneath shifts restlessly and your eyes follow the movement. It's almost hypnotic. She has too much power - she could probably erase the memory of anything you used to care about, anything you think now, and all she would have to do…

She'd only have to wrap her blue arms around you, draw you in, and kiss you until your soul disappears into that bright energy.

Your tenuous grasp on reality slips farther every time you look at her. You need to get away. But it's too late; she's already tainted you. Already ruined you. Pretty soon, if you're not careful, you'll belong to her and she'll swallow you up like a wicked witch.

"I think it could get hard, looking after myself forever. Sometimes a person just needs…help. You know? It's just natural. Humans are social creatures. We need each other."

"I guess I'm not human, then," you reply snippily. You sometimes wish it was true. And other times, you wish you could be a little _more _human.

"Oh, you definitely are." She gives you a flat smile, meant to be encouraging. You can't tell what her problem is - all the feeling she produces makes it almost impossible to dig deeper than surface motives. She takes control away just by speaking to you. It's terrifying.

"If you weren't, I wouldn't like you so much."

Why does she like you? There's nothing likable about you. If you're honest with yourself, you prefer it this way. You're untouchable. No one can hurt you. And you're such a hypocrite. A fucked up, weak little hypocrite. You can't push people away and at the same time hope they'll accept you as you are.

But it's still up in the air. Do you want to be accepted at all? Can you handle it? "You'd better be careful. This could be a big show." It is and it isn't. "I might want to kill you." You do and you don't. "Or I could be showing you the real Larxene Andersen right now." You are and you aren't.

"I don't think you're lying," she says. "But anyway, are you going to buy those paints? I _am _starting to get hungry."

"…Yeah." You may never use them. But Naminé is mesmerizing enough to prompt you to buy backup. Just in case.

She's ruined you. She's going to _keep _ruining you. And it's because of your self-destructive curiosity. It's because in the end, you'll always like being hurt more than hurting others. It's because you _are _a sadist, and you'll ruin her too. That will be the ultimate act of ruining yourself.

You can't remember which brand you used to favor, but it doesn't matter. With the right vision and a flexible hand, it doesn't matter. You're not going to paint anyway, so it doesn't matter.

You hand over sixty small units and follow Naminé out of the shop. This isn't like you; it isn't like you to follow.

Except it really is. Nobody else can see it - maybe Axel. But he doesn't matter either. Not any more. Perhaps he never did.

Mrs. Potts' is open all the time. She never shuts her doors because "every time is teatime." You've adopted it as your personal motto, recently. Tea warms you from the inside out. It's like being happy. It's home.

"This is one of my favorite places." Her tone is confessional and her voice is breathless. Less watery, and almost calm. It's still a dangerous voice, but you like it better this way. It's less cold.

It's not warm. It's just _less cold. _

"I very much enjoy this place as well." You scowl. It wasn't supposed to come out like that. "Anyway, let's sit. I'm tired." You're not. You could stand for hours and be okay. You just don't want her to laugh at you.

She agrees and the yellow billows around her suddenly and -

It must be intentional. The more people around her, the more it grows. It's like insulation. Like fake glass. It's protection. It _has _to be.

You hate yourself for wondering - what happened? Why does she need protection?

It's official. You've interacted three times, and she's already ruined you.

* * *

_It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, and the major lift._

It's not her. You can't hear her at all - the other music is loud and she's not close to you. She's not speaking to you and you've never heard her song anyway. It's something inside of _you_ when you catch sight of her, weaving through the crowd like she does this every day.

For one wild moment, you regret the drug in your system. It's a new one, some kind of pill Axel slipped you when Roxas wasn't looking. Or rather - it's ancient. They used to call it MDMA, before it disappeared, and it's the perfect thing for situations like this. You just finished with a client and he was too busy moaning like the whore _you _are to notice the change. You've a talent for keeping your faculties under the influence, but this…they call it ecstasy for a reason.

You're in blue fields and plants made of human bodies, faces peering out between petals which look like hair, but can't be. Hair doesn't grow on flowers. And what beautiful flowers they are…all colors and bright. The world rights itself and you tip just a little - the world is supposed to be crooked, spinning on its heels around the sun.

The sun. It's not here. You don't know where it could be, but it's not here and -

_She _is. She is like the sun, radiant yellow against blue and the blue makes up for the yellow. Her lips are pulled up at the corners - she looks like a clown, except not, and what the fuck anyway - and she looks pretty enough to eat. No. Not eat. Paint. No, not paint either. That thing…that thing. You'll remember after you're done forgetting.

"Naminé," you shout after only a moment searching for the name of your sun.

"You know her?" It's Axel's voice pouring gravel and mucous into your ears and you push him out of the way. You are supposed to stay with him - or stay away from him? Stay away from him, because you have to be with the sun.

"Naminé," you call again, and when she smiles the entire world flows through you. Your vision breaks into two; it's the beautiful girl, and it's a picture of yourself. You're smiling like someone you don't know and Axel is behind you, frowning, but he can go fuck himself. This is the best moment in the history of the universe, because she's here and coming toward you.

Then it's one piece again and she's close, close. You grab her hand and pull her away from Axel, because he doesn't deserve to look at her. He's not a flower yet. Neither is she, but you don't want her to be because she is the sun and maybe you should stop looking before you go blind.

"Dance! Dance with me! Naminé!"

She doesn't understand that she's supposed to dance with you. She doesn't dance at all. Then it makes sense, because you don't want to dance. You're not supposed to be dancing because you're supposed to be doing _this._

Her lips are thicker than yours, but not by much. They fit together and -

Hallelujah, hallelujah.

You have to bend down to reach her lips like someone had to do to you once, or something, maybe more, and it's like tending to a flower just like him. She puts one hand in your hair and then one hand on your chest and suddenly you're not by her any more.

"I just…" She's out of breath. The sun gets bigger and bigger and her eyes do too. It's a thrill in your heart and a rush in your head and wait, why are you not by her any more?

"I just came to find Demyx!" She's shrinking, shrinking. Or growing. Yes, definitely growing. She's towering over you and you have to do something about it. So you take the elevator to her level and smile at her.

"Have you seen him?"

"Who?"

She sighs. It's such a pretty sigh. You want to catch it and keep it where you never put any fireflies. You can open it and close it and hear the sound, the silvery sound you can't help but _adore._

"My brother. Demyx."

"I don't care. He's in the middle."

She's confused. It makes perfect sense - perhaps she's tired. Tired.

"I…have to find him. There's a bit of a crisis at home…"

"Fuck you, then!" You're so amazing. She should be smiling for you.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Larxene."

Suddenly she's _not there. _She used to be there but she's _not there. _But someone else is. You've seen him before. He makes you feel sick and he's _so safe, _but he's not the sun and you hate him for taking her away.

"I've _missed _you," Marluxia whispers into your ear. It's a voice full of power, a very rich purple voice set to Scaramouche.

You don't understand why she left you. You were so good for her. You should have climbed the steps instead. Then she would have seen your dedication.

You follow him obediently. It doesn't matter - he's going to make you feel good and he's going to be harsh and what's so special about her anyway -

Right. The sun.

_She tied you to her kitchen chair; she broke your throne, and she cut your hair; and from your lips she drew the hallelujah._

* * *

You don't know why you thought _Axel, _of all people, would be the best person to use as a confidant. But here you are, in his arms. You hate him and he clearly hates having to hold you like a child, but here you are, in his arms.

It's warm there. You don't feel safe but you feel warm, and that's all you can ask at the moment. It's all a nightmare anyway.

"I was just pissed when you ran off like that," he says, and what he really means is that he was worried. But he never says things like that.

"It was _Naminé." _That doesn't explain a thing. "She stood out and I had to…and then, Marluxia…and…well, I'm pretty pissed too. The hell were you thinking when you gave that to me?"

"I was thinking _hey, Larx is looking very sullen today. I should cheer her up."_

"I just…" You have nothing to say to that. "She left me. I didn't come back because she left me and all the colors were swirling and…"

He gives you a stupid grin. "I understand your state of mind at the time…but you'll drive yourself mad like that, upon my word!"

"Don't be a smartass." He's such a loser.

"But Larxie-darling, smartassing is what Axels do best!"

"At least apologize. You're being disrespectful." You don't even _like _the book. You just don't like _him. _What he doesn't know won't kill you.

He laughs out loud, and it's right next to your ear. It forces condescension into your ears and onto your tongue and you can taste the tangy orange. "You have no respect for humans, and you have no sense of _propriety, _but _one little thing _drives you off the edge, if it has to do with your precious _library."_

"At least my library doesn't talk _down_ to me."

And that's the end of it. He's terrible at giving comfort. But as long as he distracts you, it doesn't matter.

Naminé…

She doesn't matter. She's going to be at Mrs. Potts' in a few hours and you can scare her into pretending this never happened.

* * *

Demyx, worried, has joined you this time. You are not pleased. He's not part of tea with Naminé. You don't _want _him to be part of tea with Naminé. This is a routine, a sanctuary. She hasn't mentioned the kiss at the club and you haven't mentioned her lips and you could probably be friends, if you didn't hate her so much.

It's even worse when you're alone. The yellow disappears completely now. Five weeks and it's like she's a new person. But you're not, and Demyx knows. He saw you last night, wild and glazed and sucking on a decidedly _illegal _stick.

"So you _are _a druggie after all," he says. He's disappointed in you and he's worried about both you and Naminé and what an idiot. He's an _idiot._

"You never asked," you reply airily. But you aren't as comfortable as you sound; your heart is pounding wildly. You hate having it.

"I just…Larxene, why do you _do _it?"

"It's fun." That's the most truthful lie you could tell. It's close enough anyway.

"You're not going to let me in, are you?" It's not his words - it's his _tone. _He's suddenly defeated and you have no idea how he switched without your knowing.

You're so _distracted _lately, especially when Naminé is around. But it's not just her. It's the entire world, getting brighter and bigger and thicker. Every blade of spring grass sings a song. Every star in the sky wants your attention. Every person wants you to feel their soul. It's a never-ending cycle - the more you observe, the more there is to observe and you're being pulled, every day, into the center of the earth.

His lips move. They're really very nice lips, smooth and pink and only slightly chapped. He sings to you a lullaby of Mendelssohn and aquamarine, and you can taste it, settled in your mouth like a second tongue. It's bright and sad and it's trying to tell you something, but you're distracted by his lips and Naminé's shifting colors.

_Colors. _You still don't understand it. You can see the individual colors when you write it on paper, but when it's only said out loud, it's a red word. You've noticed a trend - people's colors tend to match their names. Not always, but often.

Hers does not. Or rather…hers _do _not.

Demyx's lips are still moving - he's trying to tell you something, you think, but Hebrides Overture is drowning his words out. You can taste his confusion. It's sticky and sour and it could be a nice taste, if it wasn't so bad.

"Are you even listening to me?"

You force a laugh. "Nope. I was distracted. Maybe next time you should be less _boring."_

"Well…long story short, I was asking if you're going to be all right."

"Of course I am. I'm not _helpless." _You don't want to be helpless. "I can take care of myself." It all seems familiar, but you have a shoddy memory, unless it doesn't matter at all or you're reminded by objects or words or -

Don't think about _that. _If you keep moving, you'll never have to spend too much time puzzling out your past.

"Well, okay. I was actually wondering…do you want to come over? Our mom came over and brought us food."

"I-" Don't want to eat? Don't want to follow you home like a dog? Don't want the pity you're painting in the air? "Would love to."

Two can play this game. It's time to go - you're out of tea - and he'll pay, because he offered at the beginning.

You hang back for a moment. It's tragic, almost, to see Naminé cover herself with yellow as soon as she nears other people. But it's still beautiful. Yellow puts you off, makes you want to scream or throw up or something equally unpleasant, but on her…

It's annoying at best. It makes her interesting. It draws you - it enhances the beauty underneath.

"Are you coming?" She's smiling at you and there's fondness in her eyes and in her posture and in her energy. And it's Overture to the Marriage of Figaro, like it was there all along. Like she wasn't hiding it behind her secondary color, her wall.

You hate her.

She's unreliable. She's unclassifiable. She's ethereal and beautiful and undeniable. Mozart composed her soul and this would be the kind of love you never recover from, if you were not so afraid of her. That's _more_ than enough reason to hate her from the darkest depths of your soul.

* * *

You never thought you would want Roxas to stop kissing you. He always tastes like the first time, and it's addicting. You become addicted to things easily. Too easily. You don't just load your body with shit because it's fun - but it's a side effect. A perk. You can think better, see better, _focus _better when you have some kind of drug in your system. It's better if it's a stimulant of some kind.

And Roxas is just like a stimulant. Or - he _was. _Something has changed. And when you push him off, he's betrayed and hurt and you don't understand. He doesn't love you.

"What brought that on, huh?" You're angry. For the first time _ever, _you're angry with him.

"You're stressed." He's straightforward and matter-of-fact and it hits like the flat of his hand, heavy, hurtful. But you don't like this kind of hurt.

"It's none of your business," you snap. "Where were you on my birthday when I got sick? Fucking _Axel _into oblivion. Where were you when I started to go crazy? With Axel. Where were you when I _needed you most?" _You scoff. "With _Axel. _You fucking suck, Roxas. As a brother and as a lover and as the person who promised never to _leave _me. You have no right to do any of this. You don't even have the right to notice."

It strikes you suddenly - he has no idea of what love is. It's almost tragic that you know and he doesn't. He was born whole. He wasn't the odd one. He didn't grow up as a retarded child.

When did it happen? When did he lose that spark in him - the one that prompted him to introduce himself when you were six and he was eight?

You want to destroy the ribbons between you. You want to destroy them, but you don't know how.

"I don't…understand. It's always helped before."

You know he's trying to do something nice for you. You hate yourself, a little, for changing so much without your notice. You have different standards. You've grown accustomed to Naminé's quiet words and Demyx's laughter and jokes and now you're dirty. When it was just Demyx, you were okay. But Naminé's ruined you.

"Just go find Axel," you say. You're tired, suddenly, for no reason at all, and even saying the words makes something inside your chest growl ferociously. You open your mouth halfway to lessen the awful taste in your mouth. There's a seed in your stomach, and it's growing, blooming, much too fast.

"Well…is there something…are you going to tell me?" He's horrible at showing you he cares. At showing _anyone_ he cares.

"Girl trouble," you toss out with a little smile you don't mean.

He rolls his eyes, as predicted. And as you wanted, he says, "You're so weird, Larx. But whatever."

As you wanted, he's dropped the subject, taking your words as a joke.

But this isn't a joke.

Naminé - her voice, her song, her color, and _everything else about her - _is consuming you. And you wish she wouldn't. No matter how much time you spend with her, you can't get past your fear. Your _terror. _And that means…

No matter what she says or does…

You can't truly like her.

* * *

You're sitting on your bed - Roxas and Axel are out, so you felt comfortable enough to bring her home - across from Naminé, laughing stupidly with her. She's giggling at nothing - what a _lightweight. _And you're laughing because she's being funny.

You feel absolutely no remorse for corrupting her like this. She's too pure anyway - it will be easier to look at her if she's tainted by you. And it's only a little weed anyway. Weed is good for the soul.

"I really miss Riku," she says suddenly, and then bursts into laughter at something you can't perceive.

"Riku's the dead old guy, right?"

"He used to be alive!"

"No shit. I'm just _asking." _You're ridiculously defensive. It might have something to do with the opium lacing your joint. It's classic, but it has a weird, unusual effect on you - your old crowd always made fun of you for it.

"Yes, he's old. Was old. Riku was old! He told me stories. They were awesome. Like, really cool. And he was blind. It was so cute!"

She's smiling at you like she's feeling perfect, and…maybe she is. Your first time, you felt the same way. Her speech is slow, measured, but you're not surprised. She seemed the type anyway.

There's not a speck of yellow anywhere on her and you can appreciate her so much more without it. You aren't repulsed by any part of her. You're angry with yourself because of it, and angry with her for making you feel this way…but like this, free of her barrier and two feet away from you, she's magnificent.

"Why do you miss him? It's not like he's coming back. Kind of pointless to miss him, right?"

"He told me stories. They were always about Sora and Riku and Kairi, but the Riku in the stories was young and mean, but nice. Not like Riku the guy, because he was nice all the time! But maybe he grew up. He went blind when he got in a car accident. Sora and Kairi were his best friends and they died. He told me stories. Sora was supposed to be a great warrior but he was too much of a goofball for anyone to take seriously, until they fought him. Kairi was a princess. There were other worlds, not connected, and then Kairi got her heart stolen so they had to go look for her. And stuff. It was neat!"

Nobody uses that word any more. 'Neat.' But she makes it look so cute…so delicious. Or maybe that's just your brain. She's not a cute person. Pure, terrifying, but not cute. Never cute.

"Sounds bitchin," you say. "It would be a cool book or something. Or a movie. You never see action movies any more."

"What stories can you tell me? You knew people before you didn't, right?"

"Yeah, I used to know people. We used to hang out and do this shit all the time." You don't mention that you rarely did weed, because there were much better highs. "I knew this girl, Ariel. She always said she wanted to live in Atlantic Island, which is funny because it doesn't exist. She was really just kinda fucked up all the time. Sweet girl, but really fucking weird. Then there was this chick, Allie. Well, Alice, but everyone called her Allie. She had this weird pretend Land of Wonder, and I guess she saw it in her dreams or something because she always…_went _there when she was tripping balls, right?" It's strange…you don't want to tell her these things. You don't want her to know about your old friends. But you want to tell her, because she wants to hear and she's _so amazing._

"There was a guy - Marluxia, my boyfriend. He was…awesome. It was always a good time." It's true. How did you not remember? "Then there were three kids, Hayner, Pence, and Olette. Hayner got mad too easily and Pence always got really hungry when he was fucked up, but Olette was alright. Then there were Seifer, Rai, and Fuu…but they were just sort of on the fringe. Hayner and Seifer hated each other and everybody except Rai and Fuu liked Hayner better."

"You knew a lot of people, didn't you?"

"I was a total loser. My friends were total losers too, so it wasn't surprising." You won't tell her what you had to do to earn those friends. She wouldn't understand. Even _Roxas _doesn't understand, and he's known you for more than fifteen years. "But yeah. I knew a lot of people."

"They all sound so interesting." Suddenly, she gets a dreamy look on her face - a mixture of excited and enlightened - and exclaims, "We should put them all together!"

You've never seen someone this affected by _weed, _of all things, but everybody's different. She seems _so sure _of her idea…you've no idea what it could _be, _but her excitement reaches out and touches you, goes through your skin and into your chest, and you know you'll want to take part in whatever crazy scheme she's concocting.

You probably won't. But you'll want to go along with it, just to see her light up like she's doing now.

"The hell are you talking about?" At least your mouth is still working in your favor. You're not fully feeling the effects of the drug, so it's easier, but you're a little angry because of it and when you're angry you tend to lose control.

"If we put the dead people with the people you used to know and didn't know when you were here with me, we can…we can…" She seems to be struggling. It's sad to watch.

"We can?" It's the sadist in you. She's fucking with your head and your heart and your eyes and ears and Mozart is only _barely _speaking to you and really, she deserves to suffer for that. She's beautiful - suffering will only intensify that, so it's okay.

It's okay. She'll be more beautiful when she's hurt. Or better yet, when she's crying.

"It should be a game!" She laughs, for no reason. Then she's silent, solemn. "A game." Then she laughs again and you really don't understand how this is appealing to you at all. You've never had much interest in innocence.

"You're speaking nonsense, little girl."

"I know! I know. But it's okay, because it's cooler than it was before. Allie could be Alice in _Wonderland _and Ariel can be in _Atlantica_ and Sora can be a warrior! Oh, and we could put worlds in it! Did you know we live in a world?"

"Yes." It's impossible to hold in your laughter; and you don't want to do that anyway.

"Are you _sure?" _

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Well, did you know we used to be connected to other places? Then they put the cage up so nobody could get in or out. It's because people…started fighting. And some of them even died! It's sad."

"Yeah, I know that. We're not supposed to know, though. They made sure all the resources and text and even _movies _talking about America - or other countries - were disposed of! They were afraid someone would tell other countries how to get in, and…it was a national decision, did you know? People are so dumb when they're scared."

"You know about that?"

"My grandma kept a stash of that stuff and gave it all to me. It wasn't illegal, or anything, to have them. It was just illegal to talk about this place being America. People are retarded. And that's the end of it! People are retarded."

It's important that she knows this. Finally - _finally - _your system is getting a kickstart. Soon you'll be unconcerned about your place in the world and it will be lovely. Your mind is - why? "They're retarded. You're retarded. _I'm _retarded. Rox is retarded and Axel is only slightly less retarded because he's a genius. And so is Marluxia, but he's retarded anyway because he doesn't know. He doesn't get it. And also he's a bastard. And we should do it. We should make it into a game, Naminé. We should. Because then…"

She bursts into blue flames and silver bells ringing in the heart of the fire. You want to reach out and catch the bells, rescue them from the flames before they burn, but if you reach her, you'll get burned too. It's quite an obstacle but you can do it because you could do anything, if you didn't do nothing. That's bad. Didn't do nothing is bad. And you're bad and you need to rescue her so you reach forward and take her face in your hands so she can put her eyes on you. She won't see the flames as you pull her out.

"Because then we could tell people it's okay to get out of here. It's okay to want to leave it all behind, because it's a fucking _hole _here anyway. The barrier makes people sick all the time. That's why the hospitals are always overcrowded. It's _poisoning _us. This is all stupid. And remember how in 1984 they tried to be different, but they couldn't? We're not that bad. We're not. Totalitarianism is for pussies anyway. Stupid fuckers and directionless power-seekers. And it could be lots of people! And people could…people could…and Sora could attack the barrier and let us all out. I don't want to leave. This place is stupid enough. But I want everybody else to leave because they're stupid too. Not as stupid as me, but I don't care. I want them all gone."

"Even me?"

"You don't count, because you're going to do this with me. We'll make that kid from Demyx's class help us. The kid with stupid hair. Then we'll own the whole country and we'll make them all leave. Well, Demyx doesn't have to leave. My brother doesn't have to leave. Axel doesn't have to leave either but he has to stay away from me because he's annoying and I hate him."

"You're so smart, Larxene."

You growl at her. "I'm not smart. I'm stupid. I'm stupid! It was your idea anyway."

"I don't think you're stu-"

"I am. You think so. Say it."

"What? But…I think something's wrong. I'm confused. What were we talking about anyway? I think Riku was there when we were talking and then we weren't and he wasn't there, but he should be here, right? What were we-"

"You were telling me how stupid I am. Say it again."

"I said that?" She looks sad, impossibly sad, and it's pathetic so you shake her a little by her shoulders. She has no right to look pathetic. Beautiful things should stay beautiful. Always.

"Say it!"

"You're…you're stupid!" She looks scared and hurt and…it's so good.

_So _good.

You kiss her through the veil. She's radiant and captivating and her lips are fuller than yours, but only slightly. It's like breathing, truly breathing. She doesn't push you away at all, but tentatively puts her hands on your shoulders like she doesn't know what to do with them and maybe she doesn't.

So fucking gorgeous.

The world is spinning in the wrong direction and suddenly time stops, for one perfect moment. That's when hate turns into the love it already is.

Then you separate, watching each other, and the hate comes back. But you don't want to tell her. If you tell her, she'll go away and you won't be able to watch her any more. You won't be able to kiss her again. You don't understand how you can hate her and want to kiss her at the same time, but that's not important.

It's only important that she stays with you.

"It would be pointless to do it," you tell her, whispering into her hair like wind.

"Do what?"

You laugh, and it really is funny. It would even be funny to other people.

She's making you normal.

* * *

We're running toward destruction and heartbreak. Our destruction, her heartbreak. Larxene, you need to get a grip. She _is _beautiful and she _does _make you feel something like alive. But you're untouchable and so is she, in a different way. I don't want to get caught in that trap. And it _is _a trap; she has to have an ulterior motive.

I used to think…

If I opened my eyes, I would see colors and shapes bending in upon me like nurses.

I was right.

And now you can't shut your eyes at all, Larxene. How pathetic can you get?

We're so confused right now. I and you and she and it's like a fly stuck in honey. You want to keep her beautiful face in your mind and in your heart, however ineffective it is, forever. But you also want to push her, runaway and never look back. She doesn't make sense.

Can you really take care of yourself, Larxene? Can you really handle the pressure?

It doesn't matter. Can, or can't, I have to handle it. I have to push through it and be strong because no one is going to do it for me. They all draw strength from _me. _It's a stupid idea, since it's not like I care about people.

Don't you?

No, I don't. They don't realize they do it…but I appear powerful. I appear strong. And it's a natural reaction.

It's all a fucking joke. But we already knew that.

* * *

You ask him what it takes to make something like that. It's just in passing, idle curiosity. You're not fucked up at the moment and the whole thing is completely ridiculous.

He tells you it's really not hard. A long time ago, it took years, but now it takes anywhere from one to three months to completely finish. His department has flexibility, because hols themselves are a specialty his boss doesn't understand. Well, okay, not technically, but his boss is a douche and why do you ask anyway?

You're just curious. You and Naminé got this stupid idea when you were hanging out and it's not like you really care anyway.

But he wants to hear it. And Laser drawing is simple. And wow, I wouldn't have expected it of you, Larxene. It's genius, really.

You have no idea what's going on inside his head but you tell him it wouldn't sell, so whatever. Go ahead and fail. You don't want to be credited with failure but if by some miracle he succeeds, you want people to know.

Then you change your mind. You don't want it to seem like you actually care about people enough to put all this out there. Because you don't care. And in a little while, he'll see there's nothing genius about it. Just ramblings of two fucked up women and the stories of a dead man.

He promises it'll be a hit. And Kingdom Hearts is born, but it's such a stupid name. You know nobody will care about it. And then he ignores you, because you're new to the group. Even Xion, the crazy chick, is accepted - you do not speak, ever, and that is a good thing. You are not truly part of the group. General consensus is that you're not worth their time.

It's true.

* * *

"I miss you." It's Axel's voice and you're surprised. He's being genuine, and you don't understand. He and Roxas are changing - they aren't supposed to _care_ like this.

Or maybe you're the one who's changed. You're the one who understands less and less and can barely concentrate. It was hard enough before…but now…sleep has always been a rare occurrence, but now it's almost impossible You're restless and frustrated and really, nobody is helping. Nobody understands you, either, and you'd love for it to be a phase but it's not. They've never really understood you; it just really _shows _now.

It's okay. It is. It's okay that they don't understand you, because it's not like you understand them either.

"You shouldn't," you reply after a long pause. For the first time in a long time, you notice your voice. It's high pitched and annoying. How can people stand talking to you? Or even looking at you? Is it because they're afraid you'll snap?

Perhaps it _is _a valid concern. You really do love the world; you just hate the people in it. You have no idea when it came about…maybe it was there all along, but you finally let yourself feel it.

"Why not? It's not as if you're not a friend. You're a bitch, and you're a sadist, and you're just not a very nice person, but…well, that's just you." He gasps dramatically. "Don't tell me you don't think of _me_ as a friend!"

"Newsflash," you say dryly.

"Well, then, I take back what I said. I was just kidding anyway."

It's things like this that make life so tedious. Axel _is _a friend, if you define the term very, very loosely. He has your back, unless it's inconvenient, and he takes care of your brother. He has a way of making things light. He's completely capable of taking things seriously - unlike you - but he just doesn't act like it. In fact, you two greatly differ; you can't take it seriously but you act like you do.

You can never decide if you want friends or not. Having friends would be nice - but you could get hurt. Again. And you don't want that.

"Fine. It's not like I care." You can play along. You like playing with people. It's why you still hang out at Gizmo. They're all so entertaining - it's so easy to fuck with them.

"Yeah, I know." And he believes you. He believes you don't care. You do care, sometimes. On good days, when you can borrow the life of the world, you care. When your brother isn't here, like now, you care. It's the combination of Axel and Roxas you can't stand. It's the way their ribbons have gotten so much thicker and brighter. It's their song - when they're together you can't hear individual ones. You can only hear Death of Juliet - how fucking _fitting. _And _nauseating._ It's the idea that they choose each other over you, and when they're together, you're invisible. You wouldn't mind being invisible to everyone else, but Axel and Roxas are different.

Special.

And…perhaps Naminé, also. But you aren't quite sure.

"Don't get all depressed," you tell him. It's uncomfortable. He's feeling _so _goddamn loudly it's getting hard to think.

He really is a beautiful forest green. It's fitting, that _something _should be beautiful about him. He's so…

Well, the word is ugly, but you like him enough to use 'plain' instead.

"Why not? The love of my life chose work over me and the only woman in my life hates me! It's a tragedy, really. I might as well go sit in a corner and say things like 'the world hates me' and 'nobody understands me' and 'go away, I'm angsting.' Don't you think?" The grin on his face is big and stupid and it would be endearing, if he wasn't such a jackass.

And…if the world doesn't understand you, is it _your _fault? Is it your fault for not trying harder? Is it your fault for ending your observation journal? Perhaps…

Perhaps it is. And if that's true, you're even more pathetic than you thought. You should have tried harder. You should spend every day studying…trying to understand, so in turn, they can understand you. So you can speak naturally; so you don't have to cover up your odd vocabulary and phrasing. You don't want to slip and say anything in color.

Not painting has been good for you; the urge to _seek out _color intensifies when you're regularly using it. But you don't know how much longer you can hold out; Naminé is captivating, inspiring.

"Well, I certainly think you need to find something useful to do with your time. Sitting in the corner won't make Roxas like you."

"I'm not really going to sit in the _corner." _He sighs, a great chesty noise you can't stand, and throws his arms out wide as if accepting something he'd rather not. "I miss him too. He's always working and - I'm not going to lie - it pisses me off. I get jealous. I just want him to belong to _me."_

"If anything, you belong to him," you point out.

"I _know. _That's why I want him to be mine too. It's like he doesn't care at all. He was just going to leave me in Twilight Town, but I followed him and refused to go back." He frowns. "Why am I even telling you this shit?"

"Because I couldn't give a fuck? Because I'll never tell Roxas? Because you really _do _think of me as a friend? Because I'm _here?"_

"Okay, okay." His frown disappears and this really is nice, this relaxing atmosphere. You've never actively considered him a good friend; you used to think of him as some kind of rival and then you resented him for stealing Roxas away. But he could be a friend. You'd just have to stop being such a bitch and he'd have to stop making fun of you every time you slipped up.

"You could have figured out the answer on your own. You're not the idiot you pretend to be. You were some kind of prodigy - and anyway, you go on about existential bullshit when you think no one's paying attention. 'Why, oh, why, am I not _doing _anything? What's the purpose? _My _purpose? Larx, are you happy with what you do? Are you content with the way you fit into this societal sham?' Idiots have more important things to deal with. Like understanding all of this in the first place."

"I know. It's just very, very fun to annoy you. And you know me so well…you little genius, you! You never had to ask! Good on you, darling."

…Like that.

"Fuck off. You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Well, yeah, but why do you say that? I thought I was being nice."

"Don't be nice to me. Just…don't fucking talk to me."

"Are you off your meds, dear? Or are you on your…time of the month…thing? That's disgusting, by the way. I'm glad guys don't bleed every month."

"I do _not _take medication," you retort sharply. "And for your information, I haven't had a period in about eight months."

"Ah. You've gone through early menopause? That explains why you're so bit - _ow!"_

You do get a little satisfaction from that little yelp of pain. He hadn't been expecting you to hit him. You don't menstruate when you don't eat - but you're not going to tell _him. _"It's _rude _to ask a woman about her cycle."

"It's rude to _hit _people, too. And since when have you _ever _cared about being nice?"

"Since you-"

Suddenly the door creaks open and Axel perks up immediately. He leaves your side on the couch and goes to the door to greet Roxas…and then you hear something like a gasp. There's a bad feeling filling the room now, thick and heavy and absolute daffodil haze.

"The hell _happened, _Roxas?"

You can see him, now, and your stomach turns. He looks…

Well, he looks beautiful. But from a relatively normal point of view, he looks like hell.

He laughs, smooth and creamy and shredded green silk blouses. Then he coughs, and laughs more. Axel looks like he's going to cry, but you know he won't. Nobody in this house ever cries. He's leading Roxas over to the couch and your brother smells like blood. It's heaven.

"Some guys were douches."

"Yeah, I got that."

"And my client? Was such a pussy, but he didn't follow the rules."

"He _kissed _you?" Axel is angry. You can see it. And it's not a pretty picture. It's a wave and it wants to swallow you.

"In public. And then he got weird and clingy when we got…when we were found."

"What assholes," Axel murmurs. "I thought that kind of stuff doesn't happen any more."

"I'm going to clean up," Roxas murmurs. Then I'm going to sleep."

"What assholes," Axel repeats as Roxas leaves for the bathroom.

You roll your eyes. "What assholes? You mean what _losers. _That's…heh. That's _funny."_

"How can you say that? They were beat _up. _They could have _died. _Just because they were kissing!"

"No, they were beat up for being _gay_ in _public. _Public displays of affection aren't exactly _good _things."

"People should be free to do what they feel!"

It's so funny. You don't want to be laughing about your brother's assault, but…it really is funny. "So it's okay for me to go beat up Vexen because I hate yellow and I feel like doing it?"

"No, that's different."

"How? How is it different? Remember the crazy old lady from Inland Empire? _Actions do have consequences. _They pretty much brought it on themselves. I have absolutely no sympathy for them. Roxas could have pushed the idiot away. The dude could have subverted the entire thing by _not _acting like an idiot. Roxas let it happen, and anyway, being with another guy in public is retarded. Even if you're just kissing."

"What…are you some kind of _homophobe? _I always thought-"

You laugh. How _absurd. _"My brother and his _boyfriend…_thing…live in my apartment. That's _you, _by the way, in case you were wondering. Analida Mason from the film adaptation of _Twelve Miles_ is fucking _hot. _I'd totally hit that."

"Then what the fuck? I mean, how can you be so cold? Don't you think homophobia is _wrong?"_

"Nope." At his confused look, you roll your eyes and explain. "Homophobia isn't wrong. Just like hating Vexen isn't wrong and being afraid of things isn't wrong. I mean, in the literal sense of the word, it's an intense, debilitating fear of gay people. Fear manifests as hatred, but the point is that feelings are never wrong. _Hate crimes _are just _stupid, _though. Whether you like it or not, fucktards will be fucktards and it's _funny. _It's funny because people really think stuff like that makes a _point. _Yeah, sure, now they have a couple of black eyes and shit like that, but they're not going to stop being gay just because they got cornered by a few jackasses."

The hypocrisy of your calling hate crimes stupid - you lash out in the same way, occasionally - does not bother you at all. You already know just how stupid you are.

"…Huh."

"Besides," you say, one corner of your mouth lifting up, "this is Roxas we're talking about. He can kick ass to the moon and back. He really only stayed because his client was a wimp and he had to defend the fucker if he wanted to get paid. If you're _really _broken up about all of this, just take solace in the fact that the assholes were so cowardly they had to gang up on two guys they thought were pussies just because they were together."

"I'm still mad. This _is _Roxas we're talking about."

"Go ahead. Be mad. I can guarantee he'll tell you to shut the fuck up and get over it. Trust me; I've known him for _way _longer than you have. It's just who he _is."_

He's silent for a moment. And then -

"You're kind of a bitch, Larxene."

"So glad you noticed. It was excruciating, trying to get my point across." And it's all relaxed again. You feel almost normal.

When he smiles at you, it's okay. You can return it.

* * *

The Nocturne household consists of Naminé, Demyx, and a black cat named Lucifer. You don't know why they would keep the cat if it's so evil; but you don't know why they think it's evil, either. You get along with it fairly well.

But you always get along with animals better than you get along with humans. You don't have to use words to communicate. You never have to backtrack or fit in with them or avoid them.

Naminé is not home yet and Demyx said he had a surprise for you, so you're rocking in a rocking chair in someone else's living room and holding a cat which seems to _only _like you. It's purring happily in your arms and you think it would be nice to have this effect on people. You used to be calm, a mediator. You used to take care of things, even if you didn't want to do it - and it was like you had lots of little cats, purring when you paid attention.

Then you _grew up. _You stopped letting people push you around, and you erected a barrier around your heart, like the barrier around the country. And…

"I didn't grow up after all, did I, Lucifer? I just hide it better now."

Even six months ago, you would never have said that out loud. You've made so many changes…you're still not sure, after all this time, whether that's a good thing.

Naminé is a life changer - whether she wants to be or not. The second time she came to your house, she told you she was afraid to disappear, because no one would remember her. She told you she was unremarkable and too small for the world to take notice.

You'd wanted to tell her you noticed her, but it wouldn't have made sense. You'd wanted to tell her you didn't want to disappear, but the thought scared you. So you'd said, "Well, that's stupid. Maybe you should _make_ people look instead of being passive."

You have a strange relationship with her. Kissing her a constant desire you have, but you've only done it twice. She draws you in with Mozart and with indefinable blue and the frightening cold, silvery stream that is her voice. It's almost like you're _friends. _You've never had something like this, something pure and generally platonic. If you weren't using each other for highs, you were sleeping together. Before.

You've even slept with _Axel. _But you both agreed never to mention it - it was only physical and neither of you really wanted the other. He didn't know how to treat a woman and you were impatient and you were both on a draggy trip.

Lucifer's warm weight on your thighs is comforting. Its purring dilutes the silence and it's going to put you to sleep, in a moment. You haven't slept in days. You have bruises under your eyes and red in the corners, reaching to the middle like cracks in a windshield. But your body always fights sleep, like it fights grease and bananas and the color yellow in anything except lemons.

And Naminé.

A door bangs open suddenly, startling Lucifer into jumping off your lap. Its fur is all over your clothing now, but that's okay. These pants are old - from when you still had the resources to make your own clothes.

"Larx? Did you actually come or am I shouting to an empty house?"

"In here," you call, and you don't bother to get up. You're rocking the chair quickly by bouncing your feet in your flats, and it feels _nice _to be able to move. It always helps you concentrate better.

He's bright and very…pretty. You've noticed it before, but it was different. Now, that beautiful aquamarine is stretching, spilling into the room like some kind of dam broke.

You're going to get swept away if he doesn't pull you out by speaking. He slides all the way in, accompanied by Mendelssohn, and it's beautiful. Naminé and Demyx Nocturne and they're both beautiful, like their surname, dipped in light or water or both. He smiles at you, lips stretching to both sides, anticipatory eyes and breath and feeling.

He draws a bigger breath than before and reaches into his bag and for an adrenaline-filled moment, you hope he's pulling out a gun.

But it fades and he shows you a thin square box. Your eyes widen.

"The fuck?"

It's a raw drawing of several characters, and in the middle is a boy holding a key.

"…The fuck," you say again. "I was just kidding. I didn't think…"

"He asked Naminé for help, because we couldn't get hold of you. If you'd turn on your damn _phone _once in a while, it wouldn't be a problem. He discussed it with Lexaeus and they both thought it was a cool idea. I mean, it's _totally _loaded with propaganda, but hey, everything is. At least this is advertising independent action. And friendship. Naminé helped with the complex story."

"She actually _remembers _that conversation?" You're a little surprised. After your kiss, you'd given her a little bead to suck and she'd been _completely _out of her mind.

"Yeah…why wouldn't she?"

He's too curious to have just forgotten. She has a reason for not telling him, so you're not going to sell her out; you want to be around her. You still want to understand this and you still want to kiss her when you're sober. And you might not be able to do those things if you tell Demyx you got her fucked up for the first time in her life.

"It was just a conversation in passing. I figured it wasn't important enough to remember."

"You remembered it," he points out. Suspicious. You're not very bothered.

"It was just bizarre enough to keep my interest. I didn't think Zexion would waste any time on it." You smirk a little. "Has he finally lost that smartass mind of his?"

"Oh, who's the smartass? I think you forget how acerbic you are half the time - you just use people against themselves. I mean, I think it's cool. I hate when people act better than others just because they know things. But still."

"He is," you reply promptly. "You should hear how _he _speaks to people. Oh, by the way, can you tell him I still think it's a hopeless endeavor?" You stop - that was not supposed to happen. "Uh. Because I'm totally a smartass and all."

"I guess. Hey, do you want to stay for dinner? I brought home a cookbook and I'm going to attempt lasagna."

"Uh…_no. _That's disgusting. I've got to meet my brother anyway."

"You're always talking about this brother of yours. Are you ever going to introduce us?"

You can't look at him. You feel his curiosity and another, much more intense _something _you've never been able to identify. You're tentatively calling it 'fondness,' for now, but that's not it. You've never felt it before.

It's so potent it's almost toxic.

"He was the dude on the news about a month ago," you finally say. "The one that got beat up by those guys in the third district."

"Is he _okay? _That's horrible! I _hate _homophobes."

You snort. "He's fine. The first thing he said after his nap was "Stop worrying, Axel. You're such a dumbass." He's tough. He can take it. And don't hate homophobes."

"Why _not?"_

This is similar to the conversation you had with Axel and you wonder if you're just weird or if people really can be more obtuse than you on occasion. "Two wrongs don't make a right. Two wrongs make a circle. Hate breeds hate."

"That's really…wow, Larxene, I was expecting…"

"I wasn't _done." _You laugh at him - he's confused. Cute. "If you want to stop the cycle, one side has to be disposed of. You could always kill them. But don't hate them. It's pointless, just like it's pointless to actually act on homophobia. Fuck, are all guys this retarded about this shit?"

"I…guess?"

"Well, I'm out," you say, stopping your rocking. He has yet to sit down, or even put the drawing away. "Call me."

"No! I won't reach you anyway."

You laugh and wave over your shoulder without turning around. If Naminé's making you normal Demyx is making you sane - or at least, he's making you _feel _sane. For the first time, you wonder -

Is living with Axel and Roxas making you even more crazy than you already were?

* * *

She really is beautiful. I keep realizing it, but it always comes back stronger than before. And she's not even the most aesthetically pleasing person I've seen; it's something extra. Something internal, maybe, which shows on the outside of her skin.

She wants me to tell stories. She wants to hear about my past - she says it's I'm much more interesting than she is. But…I just can't remember much, and what I do is either unremarkable or connected with unpleasant feelings. Roxas had total amnesia for two years, when he went away, but I would probably like that better. Then, I would know exactly what I was missing; everything.

"Well…I was a weird kid," I tell her carefully. "I read a lot. I was actually really boring."

It's mostly true anyway.

"Oh, come on. You've got to have _something."_

I suppose it wouldn't hurt to share something. But what to share?

I bare my shoulder and she gasps. "All right. Wanna know how I got this wicked little baby?"

"It's awful!"

I think it's rather pretty, in actuality, but I humor her. "Yeah, pretty much. So do you want to know the story?"

She nods, like she's too afraid to say yes. I don't understand that. But I'm not going to ask, because I don't want her to know I don't understand. I don't want _anyone _to know how different I am.

"I was exploring this house they were tearing down, right?"

_They told me to meet them there._

"There were these assholes from school. They found me there, looking around."

_She said they wanted to be my friends. Her color told me she was extra nervous - almost lying - but I wanted to see what having friends was like. I wanted to show my mother I could be normal too. I wanted to see her smile._

"They were goofing around, and one of them knocked me down some stairs."

_I felt them before I saw them but before I turned around, it was too late._

"My arm caught on a nail. There was blood _everywhere."_

_They hadn't meant to give me such a serious injury. They ran away; but I knew who they were._

"What happened next?" She's horrified, but under all of that, she's intensely curious and in _awe _of you.

"I went to the hospital, duh. Thirty-five stitches. It looked totally wicked. Then, of course, I got them back."

_I didn't tell anyone. I could see no point in saying anything; it had already happened. I did make a note in my book, the next day, to make sure to trust color, because people were untrustworthy. It was a learning experience…and I didn't want my mother to stop smiling. _

"Didn't you turn them in?"

"Ha! Of course I did. I'm not _completely _brainless."

Yes I am. If I only had a brain, I wouldn't have needed my book in the first place. I wouldn't have needed to write down everything I saw, for further study. I would have known how to be a real person in the first place. I would have spoken before I was seven. If I only had a brain,I would be able to _understand._

"That's still horrible."

"Yeah, I guess. I kinda forget about that kind of thing, though. I don't like thinking about it. Then I remember at weird times." I laugh. "I blame this on the drugs."

_I blame this on pretending to be a person, when I clearly am not._

She doesn't share in my laughter. Her mood darkens and it's dangerously close to pity. It disgusts me; it's slimy. Worms sliding down my throat.

"Is that what you remembered at my house when you were sick, four months ago?"

I've survived by putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to look back. I've survived by not thinking about it at all. I still don't want to think about it. She has no right…_no _right.

"Get out."

"What?"

"What, are you _deaf? _Get the fuck out of my room. Out of my house. Just fucking _go. _I _hate _you."

This is beyond me. I've no control over my body at present; I'm jumping at her, willing to hit her, to _hurt _her. She's scared and I don't care at all.

"I'm going!" She darts out the door like a frightened kitten.

And I curl up on my bed, knees to my chest. I pull the covers over my head, leaving only a small hole for my face so I don't start to hyperventilate.

And I don't cry. I just feel like tears are building up inside me and one of these days, my head is going to explode. I didn't ever want to think of that again. But because _Naminé _brought it up, I've already begun to associate it with her. I don't want to do that. But my brain and my body are doing it anyway.

* * *

"It's Tuesday," Roxas says, poking his head into the room. "You usually go to the café on Tuesdays, right?"

She doesn't answer. The blankets are still up around her face, and she's only left to brush her teeth and use the toilet or shower.

"…All right, then," he mutters, and closes the door again.

* * *

"Larx, this looks completely ridiculous," Axel says, sitting at the corner of her bed.

"Then don't look at me."

"Marluxia was asking after you last night."

" I don't care."

"He'll want to see you tonight."

She kicks out with her foot, but misses him. "Tell him to fuck off, will you? I hate him. I hate you. Just get the fuck out."

Even now, alone in suffocating silence and stillness, she is overwhelmed by the feelings in the house. She wants to open the window to smell and hear the summer rain, but she's afraid something else will come in through the window as well. She feels sick.

Axel's weight leaves the bed and she closes her eyes tightly. She can't sleep, and she's wrapped her arms around her shins, knees to her chest, so she doesn't move as much.

Naminé hurt her after all. She should have expected it. She's not ready to handle real people.

* * *

When I emerge from the nest in my room, ready to face the world again, the apartment is empty. I don't want the emptiness. It drives me crazy and it scares me almost as much as Naminé scares me.

So I drag all the newspapers in the corner into my room and spread them on the floor.

It's time to stop kidding myself. Those acrylics are calling my name. They have been since I bought them, that day with Naminé when I officially screwed myself over.

* * *

You're frantic and frustrated. The canvas is speaking to you, like it always used to do. You can't stop; you're making up for lost time and your heart is punishing you for denying it so long. But there's something missing. There's not enough…something.

You've captured the sunset you see out your window every night, but it's not finished. It's not perfect. There's something _wrong._

The colors are off. The red in the background is too pale, too calm. You need a better color. Like…

When you're finished in the kitchen, you close your door and lock it. If anyone were to walk in suddenly, come home before you finished, they would get the wrong idea.

Red beauty drips down your hand from the deep cuts on the pads of your fingers. You smear it on several different areas, and…

That's better. You've now officially brought the sunset to life.

* * *

"Kingdom Hearts is out," Roxas says offhandedly. "It's been out for about two weeks now.

You're in your pajamas on the couch, book in hand and paintbrush ticking your face. "Oh?"

"Yeah. It's, like, freakishly popular. Who knew, Larx? I thought it was a stupid idea too."

"People _are _stupid," you respond, without looking up. "C'est la vie."

Your fingers burn when you turn the page, and you hum softly to yourself.

* * *

It's Naminé on the phone, apologizing - for the _n_th time - for whatever she did three months ago. It's September _already? _You haven't had any clients; you haven't even been _working; _but you've become an unofficial neighborhood gofer and you've cleaned houses. You hate cleaning, but you love running. It's really been three months. And now you are ready to go back to work, but that is not the question here.

You look at the scabs on your fingers and palms, and smile.

"Sure, I'll come over."

* * *

When you enter Demyx's house, you can feel something off. You can feel something sad and frustrated and bitter, creeping toward you to jab at you tentatively, to feel you.

"Dem?"

He gave you a spare key, but you had only used it twice before you ran away from Naminé. Even though Axel's been giving you odd looks and you don't know how to interact with Roxas any more, this hasn't been home. It's still not home, but she told you on the phone to just let yourself in and you only don't know how to interact with them because you've never known. You've just admitted it now.

You don't hear anything, but you follow the feeling into the small sitting room at the back of the house. You're confused, though - you don't think it's coming from Demyx, and you know it's not coming from Naminé. It doesn't feel like her - it doesn't fill you.

You're even more confused at what you see when you enter the room. Demyx is sitting in the rocking chair, gazing at his classmate. Zexion. It doesn't make any sense to you; they've always seemed to be casual acquaintances, at best, but now there are faint ribbons connecting them and -

When did this happen? You haven't been to Gizmo in a while, but…has it happened gradually? Did it begin in their class together? Were you just not paying enough attention?

"…This is awkward," you comment. "Who died?"

"His job," Demyx tells you, almost gloomily.

"So get another one." You perch on the arm of the sofa next to Zexion. "It's not the end of the world."

"It's not that. It's school."

You frown. "He's not allowed to go to school? That's weird."

"I'm perfectly capable of speaking for myself, Demyx," says Zexion. You resist the urge to pin his hair to one side. "And it's a question of _money. _I worked at Weiss Enterprises _because_ they paid for my schooling."

You frown. "I don't really get the whole appeal - but whatever. Zexion wants to finish, and I at least get _that. _Why'd you get fired?"

"The official reason is 'downsizing of the department.' But it has nothing to do with that. It's that project. _Kingdom Hearts."_

"But that's fucking _popular. _I don't get it."

"Well, Lexaeus overheard a conversation between Ansem and this dude, Mickey Kingston. Apparently, it wasn't actually approved. Ansem really discourages change, unless it's his own idea. I don't get it either, honestly. He's such a bastard, though…he's in love with himself, I swear. He likes being in charge and he hates being challenged. It's like a fucking…I don't even know. Zex _only _worked there because they paid. For _everything."_

"This opium you feed your people, so that, drugged, they cannot feel their hurts, inflicted by you," you say scathingly. Zexion raises an eyebrow. Demyx looks confused - though you're not surprised - so you add, "Forget the asshole. He's probably overqualified, but he could get a job pretty much anywhere that deals with HoloTech, right? And if all else fails, you could do things the old-fashioned way."

"What, sue Weiss Enterprises for the rights to Kingdom Hearts? We've talked about it, but-"

"I was actually going to say public humiliation. Call the fucker out. But that works too, I suppose."

"In what universe does _that _work," he asks.

"Hey, it's not my business. I'm just tossing shit here. Where's Naminé?"

"In her room. With the game. It's pretty bitchin."

"Later, losers," you say, and you've never felt so free. You can see with clarity - it _does _help that you've been sucking on a dream bead since you left the apartment.

"Larxene!" She's up and her arms are around you before you know she's going to move at all. "I missed you."

"Yeah, whatever." She shouldn't have missed you - she was supposed to have been hurt and frightened and angry.

"So…Kingdom Hearts is out," she tells you, stepping back. You can see yellow, but it's receding.

"I noticed."

"I don't think it's going to inspire anyone." She sounds decidedly gloomy. "It's a kids' game. And people only find inspiration when they're open to it. It's like…"

"Everybody hates their lot in life, but nobody's willing to do anything productive to change it?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"Welcome to humanity, little girl." You roll the bead around your mouth. "I knew it was only a good idea when I was too fucked up to know better. But hey, at least people are buying it. Sooner or later someone's going to get it."

You sit beside her on her twin bed and stare at the Holographics. "These are pretty good."

"Thank you."

You nearly choke on your bead and you shove it into your left cheek. "Wait. _You _designed these?"

"Zexion's not an artist. He designs the hols and does the laser stuff, but someone else has to draw it out. He only feeds the image into the laser."

"So you drew each and every _pose?" _It's impressive - you try to keep your respect hidden. She's still not someone you want to trust again.

"No. I only designed the characters and the scenery. Once the image is up, you can manipulate it any way you like. I'm thinking of taking up a job in laser drawing. If I specialize this year, I can do it. I'm already on my way."

"But Zexion just lost his job because Ansem the Douche doesn't like innovation. How can you be any different?"

She looks down. "Weiss Enterprises isn't the only HoloTech company out there. It's just the biggest. You don't really hear of the others, but…maybe we could change that. Maybe Zexion and I could even start a business of our own, like a…"

"It probably won't work." She looks so downcast you actually _do _feel sorry for her, and it's irksome. You need to lift her spirits so she won't _do _this to you. She won't make you feel weird things without your permission. "But hey, it's worth a shot."

There's a period of something between one second and a hundred years where you're quiet and she's quiet and you just sit there feeling and seeing and taking it all in. She's bright and reaching out to you, but only with her soul. Her soul color. There's so much of it that you can borrow a little piece and wrap yourself in it, become part of her for a while. You've always wanted a color of your own, but you don't have one; and if you had to take one, it would be Naminé's. It's the most beautiful you've ever seen. And it really does fit her completely.

Not only does she have a beautiful color; she also has a beautiful heart.

You'll never say it out loud, but it's a realization you'll never forget, even if you might want to forget someday.

She's lulling you into absolute security with Overture to the Marriage of Figaro and the pulse of life in her.

Then some yellow bleeds into the blue and she says, abruptly, "The sky prison is coming to town in a month."

Your mouth makes a popping noise as you suck harshly on the bead. It's almost gone. "Yeah, I know. I think it's a stupid idea. I've always thought it was a stupid idea. Who the fuck puts prisoners in the _sky?"_

"It's supposed to be very effective…"

"It's a _flying prison. _Perhaps it _is _effective. It's still even more stupid than anything _I _could come up with."

"I still don't think you're stupid," she says quietly, and she means it.

But that doesn't make sense at all. Your whole life, you've been stupid. You were slow in developing cognitive functionality; you were slow in developing a personality. You were never able to understand what you saw - you were only able to emulate and imitate.

"Whatever." You're going to drop the subject. She's the only one who tries to convince you of something completely untrue.

If that's her delusion, you'll let her keep it - as long as she keeps it to herself.

"No really. I think you're really smart. I like listening to you speak."

You're sure you're going to die soon, if you don't snap and hurt her first. You have a heart in your stomach which throbs and mocks. You could throw up, and you're shaking. It's pathetic, the way you can't play along with her. Perhaps it would have been better had you never pretended - you've learned to lie too well, and now it looks, to Naminé anyway, like you really _are _the intelligent person you pretend to be.

"Talk to me when you get your head out of your ass," you retort breathily and a little unfairly.

"What?"

"Until you explain to me why you throw up those barriers so often, I'm not listening to a thing you say." It's your sadistic streak again. You think perhaps sadism and masochism are different ways of dealing with the same kinds of insecurity. You haven't changed at all.

It's _maddening._

"I can't help it. I don't know. I mean, I feel it, but…when I'm nervous or in a large group of people where I don't know anyone or sad, suddenly I feel the walls just go up and suddenly people don't want to be around me. You always look at me like you're disgusted with me…does it really bother you that much?"

"I suppose you could say it bothers me. Just the way it looks. But anyway, what's going on _now?"_

You're pushing and pushing. You won't stop pushing until you feel safer.

"My dad's in that sky prison," she admits quietly. "There was some kind of corporate scandal and it was working. He was only indirectly involved, but he knew about it. He became paranoid, and he thought people had it out for him - he ended up shooting a girl who came in to ask about employment."

"That sucks."

"Next month will be the first time in three years I'll be able to see him, since it's always flying from place to place. What do you think I should do? Should I go to see him?"

"Do you really even care about him?"

She's appalled. The yellow lashes out before quickly retreating completely. "Of course I do! He's my father! Why wouldn't I care?"

"I don't really care about my mom," you say, shrugging your shoulders. "We were never close. It's not required to love a parent." You've spent years convincing yourself of that.

"I do love him…he was a good dad, until his superiors brought him into their little scheme. He was never very good at keeping secrets."

"Then go to see him. That's the logical course of action."

"I guess you're right," she says. "I should have known you'd make it simple. You really are-"

"So what the fuck, about your brother and Zexion?" You knew what she was going to say, and you needed to change the subject before she scared you again.

"What do you mean?"

"They're totally involved. I can see it from a mile away." It's an exaggeration, but she knows that.

"They had to help each other in two different classes. When you spend a lot of time with someone, you get close to them. It's inevitable. Zexion's fairly reserved, and unavailable, but he's spent a lot of time here when we were working on Kingdom Hearts. Who wouldn't fall for my brother, anyway? He's a good person, usually."

"Well, I was pretty sure Zexion was on that list."

She laughs. "I thought so too. I'm hoping it's just a phase…they're very different, and they have completely separate goals. Demyx wants to go to the east coast and teach music at our old school. Zexion wants to go west and work up hols for films. 'Meeting in the middle' would be geographically illogical. Zexion knows that. So I don't think it will last long."

You don't say anything about the ribbons. Instead, your mouth decides to say, "You know what, Naminé? You're a pretty sweet girl."

She smiles and what you meant to say was that you think she might be killing you slowly, blunt bread knives sawing through your chest.

* * *

It's with an odd sort of detached clarity that you enter your own house at eleven-thirty at night. Dream beads can be such a positive force; they're perfect for concentration, and they only have a few questionable side effects.

When you take the bead out of your mouth, the high will hit you and you'll be unavailable, but you don't want to take it out just yet. There are things you've been avoiding and you don't want to trip before you've at least _thought _about them.

There is something wrong, fundamentally _wrong, _with you. You know that. You've always known it - since you were able to recognize thought, you've known it. You just didn't know what to call it. _Now, _you want to call yourself crazy - it certainly feels like you are, even if you're very good about keeping it private - but that seems so…convenient. Being crazy would explain the way you see the world, but sometimes, when you're not stressed and you're not trying too hard to be normal, it's beautiful. Sometimes you want to sing praises to the universe and stand perfectly still just to feel it all run through you like cleaner blood than yours.

You're not versed in psychiatry at all, but it _seems _that sometimes liking it and sometimes thinking you're just crazy probably means you're not. It's quite a frightening thought. If you're not crazy, then what are you? Being crazy, at least subconsciously, has been part of your identity since you were fourteen. You understand it and you've accepted it.

What kind of sane person sees these colors like you do? Smells things like you do? What kind of sane person hears music and sees it and feels it and tastes it, all by looking at a person? But then…what kind of insane person understands it's abnormal?

You are undeniably a sadist, even in the most basic sense of the word. You wouldn't do what you do for a living if you didn't take pleasure in doing what they wanted. You often get ridiculous requests, but if it isn't against your rules, you'll take the extra payment. It's become routine, but you wouldn't be able to withstand a normal session. You'd get impatient and frustrated and probably hurt your client anyway.

But hurting other people is just a different outlet for the feeling which drove you to be Marluxia's bitch. That insecurity, that fear, the knowledge that you'll never be good enough and you'll never be smart enough and you'll never be strong enough to be worthy of others' attentions. You were attracted to Marluxia because he pushed you around - he told you exactly what you were. Stupid, useless. Worthless, weak. A bad girl in a good girl's body. _Trash. _And you felt safe. You belonged to him - and that meant you were part of him. He kept you safe and protected you, because you _were _his, and he didn't like when people touched his things without permission.

Now, you don't have Marluxia. He changed…he became a little tender with you. He bought you a gift on your birthday. Once, he even put his arms around you from behind and just stood there, holding you. It was terrifying, and you ran. You left and didn't intend to see him ever again.

He comes to see you sometimes. You try not to wonder if he became even more dominant and sadistic after you left, or if it's an act because he wants to just _see _you. Axel thinks it's the second.

But other than those sessions, you don't have him in your life. You have to take care of yourself. You like to be pushed around, but you don't trust anyone to do it right…so you turn the tables. You become the master, the figure of dominance. And it really is a similar rush.

It's not _normal. _Since you were ten years old, you've just wanted to be _normal. _You've wanted to understand people. You've wanted to be _part _of something. But you haven't found your niche yet - sometimes you wonder if you ever will - and it's _maddening._

If there's something wrong with you, then by proxy, there's something wrong with Naminé. She wants to spend _time _with you. She knows there is something off about you - you have treated her like dirt, pushed her away, _hurt _her physically. But still she came back to you. She called and apologized, when _you _hurt _her._

You used to do the same thing, but you're different from Naminé. She has some kind of burning, inner strength you never had. You've brought her into your life, into your _world, _and still, she's…

Incorruptible.

You don't know if that's worse than being crazy. You don't know if she gravitates toward you because she doesn't understand just how poisonous you are, or because she wants to…to what? To save you? To heal you?

There's something wrong with Naminé.

Out of all the people you know, Demyx is the most sane, followed quickly by Axel. Demyx is a different breed - he's not like you. He's not even like Naminé or - or _Zexion. _But Axel should be just as strange as the rest.

Axel knows his limits, though. He knows himself. He knows his likes and his dislikes and he's very good at saying _no. _Roxas is the only difference.

And _Roxas. _He's your brother and your best friend and the first boy you ever kissed. He's the one who took your virginity and left you alone for almost five years. He's the one who left to find a place for you. He's the one who didn't understand just how much you needed him, just how far away from others you truly are.

You want to blame him for what happened. If he hadn't left, you would have been content to be a half-person forever, because he didn't understand you but he accepted you anyway. But he did leave.

You put away your journals - the ones in which you recorded all the human interaction you possible could, for study and trial - and put your observations to good use. Marluxia accepted you into his group, and the rest was inevitable.

And then there was…that.

Marluxia saved you, once. He yelled at you after and told you not to go out on your own, because you couldn't take care of yourself. He told you that you were weak and stupid and he was very disappointed. You knew he was worried, also, because you could see it in his color. But you tried so hard to pretend the colors away, so you didn't say anything. You followed his rule, until you got a little older.

And then there was that guy. You think you must have been the kind of person who attracted that kind of attention; there are beautiful, truly beautiful people who are never bothered. They are confident and powerful and it shows…perhaps your weak nature was some kind of beacon. It shouldn't happen twice.

And it didn't.

It's nauseating. You can remember it now - in vivid detail - and it's odd that you forgot. Shouldn't such a triumphant, life-changing moment be remembered always?

You know that even now, as you are, you wouldn't have killed him, no matter how tempting it would be. You like to see people suffer, to see them break. To kill him would be to grant mercy.

In this clear, emotionless state, you can admit to yourself that you need someone. Naminé was right…people need each other. But getting close to someone is risking your _life. _It's risking your sanity.

The only reason you've been okay is the blood on your canvas. You feel so peaceful when you're creating life. It's the only time you can truly sit still for more than ten minutes. You become the paint and the paint becomes you.

Even now, you're pacing. You didn't notice when you entered your room, but you're pacing, following the ring on the floor rug. It's bright blue, surrounding a white flower - Allie gave it to you for your birthday, and it's the only memento you kept from that time.

You spit the bead in the trash and lie down, resting your head on the pillow.

Tripping alone is never fun, but right now, you're not looking for fun. You're looking for peace of mind. Hallucinogens always give it to you - at least you don't see the world the way dream beads make you see.

* * *

When you return from your run, full of adrenaline and rush and rushing adrenaline, the sun is just peeking at the world from its place below the covers of its bed. Axel's raised eyebrow looks ridiculous and he's pushing almost derisive curiosity at you, but the world seems bright and he's not having any effect on you.

Your head is spinning. And you can't stop smiling. Your senses are being overwhelmed - pianos and violas and flutes. Percussion and brass and woodwinds and strings and the gods Sergei Prokofiev and Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky are smiling on you. Axel's deep green is reaching, reaching, and you want to caress it, to pet it like a kitten. You can feel Roxas in the hallway, creeping on bare feet, most likely woken by the smell of Axel's latest masterpiece in the form of a meal. When Axel gets off his lazy ass, he's a fantastic cook.

It smells like heaven and you don't know how he can fill anyone with only fruit, vegetables, and soy products, but it's absolutely amazing.

Roxas stands in the doorway, hair looking exactly like it always does - it's impossible, much like your bangs - and you can feel him coming to life. He looks like blood and smells like dreams.

"You're a crazy bitch, Larxene," he says, immediately following his statement with a yawn. "Who the hell goes running at the crack of dawn?"

"There can be no question, my dear Roxas, of the value of exercise before breakfast."

"You don't fucking _eat _breakfast."

"Fuck off, Axel," you say sweetly. "You're missing the point. You should exercise more often, both of you. It's good for the soul. Like wooden flooring, fast vehicles, and really good weed. Now if you'll _excuse _me, I need to shower and then throw myself about in utter elation."

You turn to enter the hallway when Roxas asks, "What the hell happened to _you?"_

"I almost got hit by a car." You whirl around, grinning. "A car! Remember those? I just ran right in front of it. It was an accident this time, and I didn't get hit - but it was…it was amazing! And you should have seen the driver. She looked like she was going to die any minute! Now, stop talking. I have an appointment with the shower."

"…That was fucking _weird," _says Axel, when he thinks you're out of hearing range. You feel him worrying and it doesn't bother you, for once. "Is she going to be…safe?"

"She's an adrenaline junkie. What do you expect? The closer she gets to death, the happier she is. When all is said and done, she's still alive. Trust me, Axel…she's not suicidal. If she wanted to die, she'd be dead already."

You close the door to the bathroom and strip down to nothing. And as you're standing under the water, you make a decision.

* * *

The girl was just out of high school, directionless and frustrated.

Her boyfriend was acting strangely - so strangely, in fact, that she couldn't bear to be around him any more. He frightened her. She hadn't seen him in days, but he'd always told her what to do. She didn't know how to handle things on her own.

The grey streets blended with the grey sky, making the entire world seem a little less lively. She was alone on an empty street, near the curb, wandering aimlessly in search of answers or enlightenment or…something.

She wasn't alive. She hadn't really lived; she hadn't ever completed her transition from nothing to something. She was just very good at pretending, even to herself.

If she were to die, then what? Would there be a difference? Would she find what she'd been missing in her entire existence?

She didn't want to die - she hadn't lived yet.

But…

Her ears picked up the sound of an old-fashioned car - nobody used them any more - and she smiled to herself.

She didn't want to die, but she could make herself live.

At just the right moment, she stepped forward. There was an awful screech, and a rush of pain through her entire body, and then her head hit something hard. She didn't fall asleep - she hadn't been hit hard enough - so it was the most amazing feeling she'd ever had.

"Please, let me help you," said a male voice. "Don't try to get up on your own!"

"I'm okay," she said, smiling. The action made her head throb. "It's not like I haven't been a little beat up before!"

He started to worry, and she didn't want obnoxious questions, so she continued as though she hadn't finished before. "I'm really not very good at paying attention. And I've never been known for my sense of self-preservation. I'm sorry I got in your way."

She wasn't sorry.

"Please, don't worry about it," she said when he asked if he could take her to the hospital, or if she needed an ambulance. "This looks worse than it is."

She wasn't.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm positive."

She was _alive._

* * *

"Hey, Naminé," you say, entering her bedroom and grinning at her.

"Oh, Larxene," she says, almost breathlessly. "I didn't realize you'd be here! Did Demyx get hold of you after all?"

"Demyx? No, he didn't call…well, I haven't checked my phone in about five days, but I'm not here because of Demyx. I wanted to come and see you. Why'd Demyx need me anyway?"

"He wanted to get away from me," she admits, a sheepish smile on her face. It makes her _almost _look cute again. From this angle, she looks like an adventure, and you sit next to her on her bed because you want an adventure.

"Why?"

"Because I can be mean, when I set my mind to it. He and Zexion broke up. Zexion's going to Twilight Town to work for a different HolCom company - he can transfer to the university there. Dem's finishing here soon, and then he's going to Radiant Garden - our old school back east. I kept telling him I knew it would happen, and not to be so broken up about it; it's not as if they _loved _each other, and…they had major differences. We weren't the only ones completely puzzled by it."

"No, they didn't love each other," you agree. "They could have, if they'd been together longer, but…it wouldn't have been a great relationship anyway. Demyx would get fed up with Zexion's analytical nature and Zexion would get fed up with the sheer amount of _noise _Demyx can make."

"Sometimes relationships like that can work."

You don't know what she's feeling. It's soft and timid and it's hiding from you, peeking at you only when it thinks you're not looking. It's almost…sweet. And it's directed at you. What is she thinking?

"I suppose." Searching quickly for a subject change, you ask, "Hey, have you decided what you're going to do? About your dad?"

"Yes. I'm going to see him. I'm going to tell him about how I'm at college now, and how I designed characters and scenery for a game. I want him to be proud of me."

"Cool." You aren't sure what to say, but you don't want silence, either. You're still afraid of her. She's afraid of you, too…and you think maybe this was the wrong decision to make.

You still sleep with people for payment. You still enjoy watching people suffer and you're still scattered. You still get overwhelmed by color.

"I wanted to be brave for him," she adds.

"I see."

"You know, I had this weird dream this morning," she says suddenly. "There was an old-fashioned car, and you were there. It almost hit you. Isn't that weird?"

"Yeah, but only because it _happened."_

You can't help but laugh at her startled expression. "But that…that was the same feeling…"

"So you're…psychic or something?"

She laughs quietly, behind her hand. You wonder why she does that. It's not very attractive. "I've only felt it strongly with you. I used to do little tricks, in high school; I'd focus on a person, notice things about them, and just…connect to them. Then I'd be able to 'wow the crowd,' so to speak. Dem had his music, and he amazed everyone, but I didn't have anything special. I'm not smart like Dem; I'm not musical; I'm not personable. So I amused myself by pretending to be some kind of mystic. I just didn't know I could…I thought that stuff was just jokes, even the professionals."

"So you were _watching _me," you ask - teasing, because you're afraid of the answer and you're afraid of the power she has over you. You're afraid of the way she makes you feel. The idea of psychics has always been very believable to you; if you can see lies and feelings without thinking, it is equally possible to see other things. You are only frightened because of who she _is._

But today, the world is bright and it's not as bad as it would be any other day.

"Well, you _are _very interesting."

"And _you _are very weird."

She smiles, and then gasps. "Oh, guess what came out in the Traverse mag?"

"A crossword puzzle?"

"No!" She's trying to sound indignant, but she's also trying not to laugh. "Look at this article!"

You're inordinately pleased. The article is very well-written, by someone who obviously thinks outside the box within a box.

_Is Kingdom Hearts, _it wonders, _a parallel for our own lives?_

The existence of other places isn't a very well-kept secret any more, but you never expected anyone to actually _care. _And _you _still haven't played the game.

The article explores the idea that the other worlds are representative of the other countries. The three protagonists are restless, adventurous kids - 'much like the rest of us' - and we can only get out if we create a 'storm,' and 'unlock the doors.'

It's all ridiculous, really, but it's _almost _what you were thinking when you were stoned with Naminé the first time in your room. The game really isn't very inspiring. It's a story about a boy, a duck, a dog, an asshole, a princess, and a bunch of giant keys. But you know from experience that inspiration can come from anywhere, if you're open to it. You really only have one thing to say.

"Zexion is going to be a national hero one day, if people actually pay attention. I mean, people probably won't, because who wants to change anything if they don't have to? I mean, humans are horribly lazy. But _if _people actually decide to do something about the barrier, which _makes everyone sick, _then in a hundred years or whatever, they'll look back and go wow, that guy was cool."

"I know. Demyx will be proud of him. Actually, he'll probably be dead before anyone decides to do anything. He'll find some way to be happy anyway."

You shake your head, and then a short spray of laughter forces its way out. "Hey, now that their little relationship thing is over, I can go back to calling him Zexy. He _hates _that."

"I know." Curiosity suddenly pushes all the way out, and you physically shrink back for a moment. But you stop yourself. You don't want to be that scared little girl any more.

"Why did you really come here? I mean, I know you said it's to see me, and I believe you. But you would have called first if you didn't have a specific reason…right?"

"I…" You take a breath, and fall silent.

You've never had a color, and you've never had a song. You still haven't found that extra smart person who can understand you. She barely knows anything about you, though from the way you've spoken on occasion, she probably thinks she knows you.

"I have a few things to tell you. I was wondering…will you…um, go…well…ah, fuck. I sound retarded. Will you go on a date with me?"

You feel so incredibly stupid, but she smiles and it's okay, for the moment.

"Of course! When?"

"Now?"

"Let me get my shoes."

At least you and Naminé have one thing in common; you are both terribly uninspiring. But this is it - this is the decision you made. Now you just have to follow through.

* * *

Against the kaleidoscope of people in the first district, she looks magnificent. You could pick her out of a crowd of a million. And holding your hand, like she is now, there is no yellow.

None at all.

"Geppetto's sounds fantastic," she says - you hadn't asked yet. But you were thinking it.

Throughout the entire walk from the gateway to the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant, you can only think of how feeling her beside you makes things easier to endure. Her soul-emotion is so powerful it chases away the others. And when she holds your hand it's like she's lending a little bit of her soul to you.

Without the pressure of feeling other people, you can look and enjoy seeing people. You can enjoy the buzz of sound and music and you can savor the taste of _human. _

The sights are so overwhelming - but in a crowded area, it's easier. It's busy and you don't know where to put your soul so it stays inside you. One look at Naminé can ground you.

You still can't classify her blue. But you think it's okay. You like it better this way.

When you're seated she looks at you expectantly and you take a deep breath. This is your new moment…this is your chance to keep the biggest promise of your life.

"I'm…really fucked up," you confess to her. "In the head."

She laughs. "I haven't seen that."

"No, it's…I'm really good at hiding it. I just…it's…color, and music, and…it all gets mixed up. I can taste you from here, but sometimes I can't hear."

She cocks her head to one side and says, "I don't understand. Will you explain it to me?"

So you do. You explain that you never see anything as it _is - _you always see more. Similes make you laugh, for the most part, because in your vision, things are rarely 'like' something else; they just _are _something else. You explain that you have problems with color, and speaking, and thinking.

Then the server comes with your food and she says, "How is that a bad thing? I'd love to be able to see colors like you do."

"They're distracting. Sometimes I really like them; seeing lies and love and feeling can be useful, and it's all beautiful. But sometimes I get suffocated. Roxas used to tell me to look at something, and sometimes I wouldn't be able to find it because he'd say something like, "It's the one with the blue C on it." And every C is blue, so I'd get confused. I was younger, and I didn't quite understand what was going on. I thought he was teasing me, because I didn't know he didn't see it."

You shrug. "Sometimes it's like everything hones in on me and I can't get out of the way. Every feeling, every color, every sense. I feel it all go through me and I disappear, even though I'm right there still. I…just stop being there. Then it's over and I feel like I just got back from space."

"That sounds…hard." It's not sympathy. It's curiosity and that something else and that's good enough for you.

"I never really feel…like a person, either. I mean, I was such a _stupid kid._ I didn't even start speaking until I was older. And I didn't play with other kids; I read books and took notes, like watching people was a science experiment, because I wasn't even smart enough to understand how to play with them. I was just…and then suddenly, I got a chance to be _somebody. _I joined Marluxia's crowd. We started dating and then we started stoning and - you know, I wasn't always like this. I used to need to be told what to do. Then I changed. I just…I don't know. I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I had a reason, but I don't remember it any more."

You look away. It all seems so pointless now. You wanted her to be your person - the one you could speak to when you needed someone. But now you're just embarrassed and scared of her and perhaps you can still save yourself - it wouldn't take much to attack her, scare her away for good.

You just don't want to do it, because…she's the only one to whom you've ever told even a quarter of the truth. She knows about you and she's not disgusted or confused. It's just curiosity and even more of that something else.

The ribbons connecting you are ridiculous. You want to cut them. You can't believe you were actually ready to be open. You're about to stand and walk out, but then -

Mozart.

Serenade no. 13.

You can't quite hear it, but you can feel it. It's a faint pulse.

"Do you want to go, Larxene?"

You nod mutely.

You've never had a song, and though there's no one new around you, there's a new song.

You pay the woman at the front and follow Naminé out of the restaurant, still confused and hopeful and…something.

It feels like you hate her, but that's not right. You're afraid of her and in awe of her and wary; you can't decide if you want to jump at her and attack or jump at her and kiss her.

"I think you're amazing," she tells you, and laces your fingers together. You instinctively lean closer, to get nearer to the cold, silvery voice and the beauty surrounding her, covering her entire body, but then you're once again distracted.

It's what she is to you. It's…

It's not your song. It's yours and hers together.

This is what she means to you.

"I think we should do this again," you say, and you're surprised you sound confident. You're just completely confused. This is…what she is to you?

A small serenade. Or a little night music - you've never been able to find out which one it really is. But the feeling is the same.

And you can only hear it now, because you _were _open to her. Because you don't love her, but you want to love her. That's why you're so afraid. That's why you want to hurt her.

You don't love her…

"I'd love that."

Yet.


End file.
